


Blood Spilled

by Little_Lat



Series: Blood Ties [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5563165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything descended into Hell almost instantly."</p><p>The Prime Minister is dead, Unit 2 are facing their toughest assignment yet and all Athos wants to do is make sure everyone comes out alive.</p><p>Apparently that's too much to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm back!
> 
> Welcome to Blood Spilled! This is the fourth installement of the "Blood Ties" series. I hope you enjoy ^^
> 
> The reading of the previous fics in this story before "Blood Spilled".
> 
> Enjoy!

Everything descended into Hell almost instantly.

The members of Unit 2 were dispersed throughout the conference room, dressed in dark suits to blend in with the press. Their jackets were tailored to be just lose enough to hide their weapons hidden at their waist or shoulder. d’Artagnan felt the weight of his own hand gun reassuringly on his hip. His eyes slid to the side for the smallest of moments, checking on his teammates. He could see the shaggy head of Athos a few rows ahead, Aramis on his right and one in front. Although he couldn’t check, d’Artagnan knew Porthos was on his other side in the back row, situated next to the exit.

Unit five were up front, flanking either side of the platform where the Prime Minister addressed the room. Ninon stood tall, her blond hair loose and bouncing across her shoulders. In white high heels and a grey dress which clung tight to her body, most over looked her as an assistant or PA. The majority weren’t aware of the, at least, two weapons secreted on her person, or the fact she could burst a man’s jugular _with_ those high heels in 5 seconds flat.

Sometimes it did Ninon a favour to be underestimated.

The rest of her team stood in formation, Felix, Giles and Renard each in their positions. They didn’t look quite as bored as d’Artagnan felt, but then, he supposed, they were up front in full view of the cameras.

d’Artagnan, truthfully, had stopped listening to the Prime Minister’s speech. Gaston Yanick was a small man, about 50 years old with a smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something a little shifty about him, but then many politicians were the same. Louis Royaline had a similar look. He stood to the right of his superior, a hand protectively on his wife’s back. Anne’s baby bump was obvious, even in her loose dress and blazer jacket. “The country’s baby” the tabloids were calling it. Tabloids around the country carried paparazzi snaps of Mrs Royaline, along with obnoxious headlines about her pregnancy diet and potential names. The whole this irked d’Artagnan to no end, but it had been Aramis who had almost destroyed a magazine stand when the media circus had started. But then that was hardly surprising…

At least Anne Royaline had Constance by her side. With university ended for the summer (In _April_ , which d’Artagnan maintains is ridiculous but that’s another story). And the two have been inseparable ever since. It eased Anne’s nerves to know Constance was nearby during her public appearances, it was good to know at least once person wasn’t attempting to get close to her just to take her photo or sell secrets to the vultures.

The whole set up was routine. Just another press conference, just another campaign stunt. Or it would have been until the shouting began. It was a jostle at first, could have been nothing more than someone sitting on another’s jacket but it grew, snowballed, until a man on Athos’ side of the audience lunged forward. The man was tall and lean, dressed in a tanned suit jacket which was a good few sizes too big. Something long and black and _heavy_ swung into the air.

“Murderer!”

And just like that chaos descended.

Two bangs ricocheted around the room as the press scattered. d’Artagnan tugged his own gun from his belt, vaulting over the rows of plastic chairs towards the stage. Yanick was blocked from view immediately by Felix and Ninon’s bodies as all the Musketeers rushed to do damage control. His eyes automatically went to Constance and Anne. His wife had the other woman’s arm in a death grip. Both pairs of eyes were focused on something on the floor which d’Artagnan couldn’t see, but whatever it was had their eyes terrified.

Almost breaking protocol d’Artagnan’s feet turned towards the women, towards his wife, but his mentor’s words stilled his feet.

“d’Artagnan, with me!”

His eyes snapped to Athos, in time to see the older man make a beeline towards the front exit. He looked back, but in his moment of distraction Aramis had reached Anne and Constance. The man’s arms wrapped round the women protectively and herded them toward the back of the stage. Aramis glanced back and gave d’Artagnan the smallest of nods. He had them.

With that d’Artagnan’s attention turned back to the mission at hand. He took off at a full run, through the door, after Athos.

After the gunman.

 

* * *

 

“You don’t have to do this…”

D’Artagnan’s feet slowed at his mentor’s voice. He cursed, not for the first time, that this particular Government building felt like a rabbit warren. Athos was close but _where_ exactly? d’Artagnan wasn’t sure.

“There’s no coming back!”

“You don’t know that,” Athos’ voice reasoned, “You can’t know for sure.”

d’Artagnan crept forward, listening to the conversation which was coming from the _right_ … Definitely the right.

“You don’t kill the Prime Minister and get to live.”

“You don’t know he’s dead,” Athos countered in his normal, logical, way.

“I want him _dead_!”

“If you end everything now you’ll never know if you succeeded. Never be able to tell your side.”

Hand gripped tightly on his hand gun, d’Artagnan slid around the corner. He was sure Athos saw him, not that his eyes flickered from the man between them. The gunman in the tan jacket had his back to d’Artagnan, hand raised with his own weapon pressed to his temple. Blond hair curled around the dark barrel, quivering as the man’s hand shook. Athos’ own gun was pointed straight at the stranger, of course there was not the slightest quake.

“Who would listen to me anyway?”

The man spat the words at the floor, but Athos’ voice remained level, as if they were discussing options for lunch.

“I will.”

D’Artagnan crept forward silently, slow but constantly he inched his way towards the man.

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Athos held the man’s gaze, “What’s your name?”

There was a beat of silence. d’Artagnan didn’t think the man would answer, but then.

“Joseph…”

“Joseph,” Athos repeated, “Joseph I can help you, please let me help you.”

“How can you be so sure you can?”

“My name is Athos, I work for the government. I can keep you safe while your side of the story is told. It doesn’t have to end here.”

“Really?” The voice was small, desperate.

Athos nodded, “Really. Just put the gun down and let me take you in. I will _listen._ ”

For a second d’Artagnan thought Athos’ calming words had worked. The muscles in the man’s arm seemed to slacken. The gun quivered against the skin of his temple. Athos gave the smallest of nods, he reached out his free hand, imploring Joseph to release the weapon.

d’Artagnan was only a few feet away by now, so close to being able to grab the gun, when suddenly the arm tensed again. The metal as shoved against man’s own head, smashing metal into the thin flesh.

“You’re _lying_!” The man’s voice broke. Although d’Artagnan couldn’t see his face, he could imagine the tears in his eyes. “Marmion _told_ me about your mind games! About your tricks. There’s only one way out… Only –“

d’Artagnan lunged as gunshot exploded, but the bullet was faster. The man crumpled against the wall, crimson ebbing around his head like some lopsided halo. A roar ripped from Athos as d’Artagnan darted forward. He placed two fingers to the clammy skin of Joseph’s neck, but it was a pointless endeavour. d’Artagnan could see the man’s eyes now. The tears which he had predicted were there, but the eyes were devoid of light, of life. The man was younger than d’Artagnan had assumed. Joseph was perhaps only a year or two his senior, yet so much younger in his unnatural stillness.

“God damn it!” Athos’ fist smashed into the cold wall as the younger man shook his head, “I was so close…”

He dug his hand into his pocket dialled a familiar number.

“Captain?” Athos’ voice was gruff and heavy as he scrubbed a hand through his hair, “I’m going to need a clean-up crew at this location…”

 

* * *

 

The two men said little while they waited for help to arrive. d’Artagnan wasn’t sure what to say to his mentor. After hanging up with the Captain, Athos’ head had fallen forward until his forehead pressed into the wall. His eyes closed and d’Artagnan pretended not to notice as guilt and pain etched into the pale skin around them.

Because, even without asking, d’Artagnan knew Athos had already begun blaming himself. Athos, the man who had made it his life’s mission to atone for sins which weren’t even his own. Athos, who saw every kid in trouble as someone to save, someone to help. Athos, who even after his younger brother had beaten him senseless and pressed a gun to his head, felt guilt towards anyone who reminded him of Thomas. That misplaced blame pushed him to help others, to save others who reminded him of the brother who he could not.

All in all it couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes before the techs to arrive, but it felt like a small infinity. It was the incoming of heavy footsteps which caused Athos to push himself away from the wall and tug himself together.

“Suicide,” Athos snapped at the three paramedics as they rounded the corner, “I want his body bagged and brought back to the Garrison’s medical unit.”

d’Artagnan stood up to allow the men access to Joseph’s body. They began their work at once. It took him a moment to notice that Athos had turned and was already stalking in the opposite direction. With a nod of thanks he took off after the older man. He had to break into a jog to catch up, only finally reaching Athos’ side once they had rounded the corner.

“Athos?”

He didn’t even break his stride. d’Artagnan tried again.

“Athos!”

It wasn’t until he grabbed the older man by the shoulder and forced him to stop that Athos, finally, looked at him.

“What?” There was something, hard, in his face. A mask over his features. It made d’Artagnan’s heart hurt.

“Don’t, Athos, don’t do this…”

Athos huffed out a breath, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You do, I know you do,” d’Artagnan placed a hand on each of his mentor’s shoulder, “That man isn’t your fault. His _decisions_ are not your fault.”

Hard as d’Artagnan tried he was unable to catch his mentor’s eye. Athos was actively avoiding his gaze. There was a hard line to his jaw, a tenseness to his muscles which betrayed his emotions even without his eyes.

“You tried, you did your best, but you cannot save everyone. Blaming yourself will do no good. There was nothing you could have done to change that man’s actions.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Athos’ voice, when it was finally given, was surprisingly raw.

“Because,” d’Artagnan’s grip tightened on his friend’s shoulder, “You saved me. But I wanted saved. He didn’t. That man’s decision had been made before you even opened your mouth.”

A heartbeat of silence passed between them before Athos finally sighed. The hard lines of his face softened, a sad smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re a frustratingly observant little shit, do you know that?”

“Always,” d’Artagnan patted his mentor’s shoulder before they began to walk again.

“You did pick me…”

Athos shook his head, “A decision I question at least twice a week. Now-“ Athos used his good arm to shoulder his way out of a security exit door into the sunshine. The building was quiet, the press having scattered in the chaos. D’Artagnan dug his phone from his pocket and squinted at the text messages.

“We’ve been recalled to the Garrison,” d’Artagnan looked up from the text from Treville, “By the looks of things everyone who’s not out of the country has been.”

Athos nodded reading his version of the same message.

“Well then we had better get going.”

 

* * *

 

There was a tension in the Garrison the like d’Artagnan had never experienced. It was like everyone was walking along their own personal cliff edge, waiting to be shoved one way or the other. d’Artagnan swallowed a little nervously, following Athos as he forged a path through the Atrium. Musketeers moved carefully around each other, full of tense looks and furrowed brows. Athos was no exception, offering none of his normal greetings, even to agents he knew. Instead of heading toward the Unit 2 office Athos weaved toward one of the large briefing rooms. He paused only briefly to knock before letting them inside.

Four sets of eyes turned to the new comers. Constance let out a choking sound, released the grip she had on Anne Royaline’s hand and fired himself towards her husband. d’Artagnan opened his arms and the space was immediately filled with the familiarity of home.

“ _Hey…”_ d’Artagnan pressed a kiss to his wife’s pale forehead, whispering gently in Russian, “ _Constance, it’s all right…”_

 _“You ran after a man with a gun!”_ Constance hissed, her hands snaking up to anchor herself against her husband, _“I was so scared, you idiot…”_

Carefully d’Artagnan’s hand reached up and let his hand disappear into her wild loose hair. He glanced up at the rest of the room, remembering they weren’t alone.

“Don’t mind us,” Athos said dryly, shooting his youngest team member a look suggesting he most definitely _should_ mind them, “Do carry on.”

Heat rose in d’Artagnan’s cheeks. He patted Constance gently but apparently she wasn’t ready to let go. He just looked up apologetically.

“Please, forgive the unprofessionalism Mrs Royaline.”

But the politician’s wife waved the apology away, “I told her you would be fine. Musketeers are not stopped to easily.”

d’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel lucky that Louis Royaline himself wasn’t there. Partly because he doubted he would be quite so forgiving, but partly because Aramis was standing all too close to the pregnant woman. One hand rested on the back of the woman’s chair, which made d’Artagnan want to prize a few fingers back. Porthos hadn’t seemed to notice, his eyes focused on their leader instead.

“Get me up to speed,” Athos stepped forward into the room, looking between his men.

“The bullet hit Yanick in the lower chest,” Porthos sighed, a hand rubbing tiredly over his face, “Unit 5 accompanied him in the ambulance to the Hospital. Mr Royaline too. The Captain met ‘em there and is keeping us updated. Last I heard he’d been rushed inta’ major surgery.”

Athos nodded, looking like he was fighting back a series of swear words for the sake of the women present.

“What about the gunman?” Aramis asked as Athos sunk into a seat around the conference table.

“Dead,” Athos said simply.

“How-“ Aramis began, but was cut off by one of their leader’s looks.

“Perhaps this conversation would be better suited until another time.”

With an eye flick to the side Aramis understood. Perhaps the pregnant woman didn’t need to hear any details of how a man painted a wall with the inside of his skull.

“Right,” Aramis nodded.

“We thought, given the circumstances, it would be best to bring Mrs Royaline and Constance here, until we heard from you...”

“A smart decision,” Athos nodded just as Porthos’ phone began to ring against the table. The big man glanced at the screen and then sucked in a breath.

“It’s the Captain.”

“Let me,” Athos held out his hand and Porthos passed it over.

“Captain?”

“Athos?” Treville sounded like he was frowning, “You are back at the Garrison?”

“Just, with d’Artagnan. How is the Prime Minister?”

The silence through the phone set Athos’ jaw in a tense nervousness, anxiety filled gazes fixed on him from every corner of the room.

“It is about to break in the press but I – well I thought you all deserved to hear it from me first. The Prime Minister is dead. Louis Royaline is to be sworn in within the hour.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feed back, you have no idea how much they all mean! I love hearing all the things you have to stay.
> 
> Here's chapter 2! I hope you enjoy ^^

Darkness had settled into the streets of Paris by the time Unit 5 and their Captain returned to the Garrison. Athos had already dismissed his team. d’Artagnan had left with Constance and Porthos had offered to drive Mrs Royaline to her town house in the centre of Paris. Aramis had been the last to disappear, but after a squeeze of his leader’s shoulder Athos was alone in the office. In fact, the Garrison was surprising still by the time Athos heard voices. He couldn’t hear what was being said, and, by the time he had walked into the corridor it was empty.

Still, he had a good idea where at least Ninon would have gone. A few minutes later Athos was proved right. Ninon, now changed out of the clothes from the press conference and into a pair of leggings and black sports bra, prowled around the combat gym. Her light blond curls were scraped back into a high pony tail, and heels had been abandoned in favour of bare feet. Suddenly her leg shot out, savagely kicking at one of the punch bags before beginning a relentless assault on it with her fists.

Athos shrugged off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

“Need a partner?”

Ninon froze, shoulders tense.

“I am hardly the best company right now, Athos.”

“Perhaps, but you might feel better if you hit something which can hit back,” Athos reasoned as he tossed his dress shoes and socks into a pile with his jacket.

With a sigh Ninon turned. For a second Athos thought he was about to be sent away, but then she nodded a consent.

Athos stepped forward on the balls of his feet, fists raised in preparation. Ninon’s attack was instantaneous. Athos took half a step back, blocking the first few punches with his good arm. He ducked under her arm and spun out of reach, but Ninon kept coming. Her next punches were quick, but Athos’ defensive skills were good. Because he wasn’t on the offensive. This was for Ninon, not him. She needed something to hit, a way to get her frustration out, Athos was willing to help with that.

Still, he didn’t need to make it easy for her.

Athos was good, but Ninon’s assault was relentless. A punch finally landed and Athos took the full force of it into the shoulder of his bad arm. A hiss of pain squeezed from his tight lips and he faulted. It was only for a moment, but that was enough. Ninon hooked a foot around Athos’ ankle and swiped it out from under him. He fell hard with a curse and rolled away from the forceful blonde as he descended.

Ninon made a grab at Athos’ head, but he was too fast and instead grabbed thin air. Athos flipped himself around, ignoring the ache from his bad elbow and grabbed her arm. He attempted to wrench it behind her backinto a lock, but Ninon smashed her free elbow into Athos’ stomach, winding him. Air knocked from his lungs, his hold weakened on Ninon’s arm and that was all the opening she needed. Athos was flipped onto his back, an arm was pressed hard against his throat a moment later. Wind pipe crushed, Athos’ attempts to get free became more erratic. He struggled, attempting to land a hit, but when that proved fruitless Athos banged his good hand twice on a mat. Ninon, with a satisfied sigh, released his throat and sat back.

With a big gulp of air Athos struggled up into a sitting position. He moved his bad arm gingerly, stretching out the muscles and tendons. It didn’t feel like and of the metal pins had slid out of place; just an ache. Once he was satisfied with his inspection he looked back to Ninon, who was doing her own stretching.

“Feel better?”

Ninon paused, as if considering the matter, before she nodded. “Marginally.”

Well that was better than nothing, Athos supposed.

Ninon pulled her legs up until her feet pressed against each other and knees fell to either sides, as if she was in the middle of yoga. Athos waited, wondering if the one word would be the extent the woman’s conversation, but then she spoke again.

“The Captain said we couldn’t have known…” Ninon sighed, leaning backwards and arching her spine until Athos heard a crack. “The gun was hidden some time ago above a ceiling tile. He didn’t bring it in with him. There was no way to know…”

“Treville would not lie,” Athos pointed out, “If he thought we hadn’t done our job, that our neglect had caused the Prime Minister’s death… Well he would not lie to us.”

Ninon nodded, “Perhaps…” However her gaze remained unconvinced. “But I missed it. I should have noticed sooner, I could have stopped it.”

Athos frowned, “Ninon, you can’t blame yourself for this…”

“Someone is dead, Athos. The Prime Minister is dead. It was my operation. Someone has to take responsibility…”

An idea struck him.

“Maybe it is the fault of one of your men,” He mused, “Maybe Giles missed the gun, or Renard.”

Ninon’s eyes shot up and Athos could _feel_ the ice from those blue eyes, “Excuse me?”

Second thoughts sent a prickle of apprehension down his spine, but Athos pressed forward. “Well your men were facing the crowd. Mine _were_ the crowd, couldn’t have seen the shooter. Yours had the perfect vantage point but missed it.”

“My men have done _nothing_ wrong!” Ninon sprung to her feet, a protective fire suddenly ignited in her stomach. She continued to glare as Athos pushed himself to a standing position. Ninon had a good two inches on him, which she used to her full advantage by stepping forward with her finger pointed accusingly at Athos’ chest. “You have no idea! They are the most dedicated men in this whole organisation! How dare you even insinuate Yanak’s death is somehow – Why are you smiling?”

Because Athos was smiling. Ninon had just proven his point.

“Why do you defend them so vehemently yet condemn yourself?”

Ninon’s eyes narrowed as she realised she had played right into Athos’ trap. Her righteous rage seemed to fizzle into irritation. She reached up, tucking a few stray hairs back into their place.

“It’s not your fault Ninon,” Athos touched her shoulder before he turned to pick up his discarded clothes. d’Artagnan’s words danced back into Athos’ mind.

“You cannot save everyone…”

* * *

 

Treville said as much to Athos the next morning. The gun, the ceiling tile, everything. He wasn’t looking for sacrificial lambs, only that they as an organisation learn from the mistakes so they are never made again. Even still, the Captain looked like had aged years over night as he ran a hand through his greying hair from the other side of the desk.

“Did you get anything from the gunman before he died?” Treville asked finally.

Athos rubbed a hand over his beard covered jaw. He wish he had better news, something that Treville could present to the new Prime Minister.

“Just a first name. Joseph. He was barely older than d’Artagnan, a kid in an adult’s body.”

Treville didn’t even attempt to hide the disappointment in his gaze, “A pity... Although, if he was as young as you say, I don’t believe he was working alone.”

“There is no way,” Athos shook his head, “The boy was too emotional to have the kind of forethought needed for planning.”

Because he had been. Athos thought back to the man he had cornered after in the Government building. Joseph. The way his hand had shaken as the metal had pressed against his pale temple, the light, damp, eyes which had roamed wildly in as if only just realising that there was no way out. The way his voice had cracked with fear.

_Marmion said…._

The name sparked in Athos’ memory. He frowned, the name rolling around inside his head. Marmion. Not that he had heard the name before, or at least it didn’t sound familiar. But it could be a lead, their only lead.

Treville’s eyebrows shot up. He knew Athos, and his looks, all too well. Knowing someone for over a decade would do that.

“What is it?”

“An idea… Something…” Athos pushed his chair back and stood, “Maybe nothing…” He grabbed his suit jacket and shrugged it on.

“Do I get to know?” Treville asked, somewhat surprised by Athos’ sudden departure.

“If it comes of anything…” The younger man promised as he headed for the door. He paused for a moment, hand on the door handle, and gave a nod, “Captain.”

And with that he was out of the door. Treville shook his head with a frustrated fondness as he turned back to his computer. Perhaps he should have pressed for more information, and would have with any other agent, but he trusted Athos, more than any other man under his command. When there was something worth anything Treville was sure he would be the first to know.

* * *

 

He found d’Artagnan quickly enough. The boy was in the Unit 2 office in the middle of typing up his report of the press conference. Clearly he was having problems, Athos could see that by the amount of hair which had been tugged from his bun. After working together for the best part of eighteen months Athos had learned quite a few of the young man’s tells. When he was stressed? The kid tugged at his hair by the roots, leaving the tell-tale signs of strands being dislodged from the elastic.

“What’s wrong?” Athos asked as he sat down at his own desk.

“Hate reports…” d’Artagnan muttered. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye socket, “What I want to say always comes out wrong…”

“Just write down what happened. No embellishments, no inferences, just the facts.” Athos typed his password into the keyboard and his computer lit up. “How about you take a break anyway. Brain storm with me. Marmion. Mean anything to you?”

“Marmion?” d’Artagnan looked up from his laptop. “Joseph said it, before he…”

Athos nodded, “I remember. I mean apart from that…”

D’Artagnan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in thought. After a moment he shook his head in defeat.

“Should it?”

“No,” Athos sighed. Well it had been worth a try, “I checked our data base. But it’s all we have to go on. I’d put money on Joseph not working alone. He is –was – too young, erratic… All we have is the name…”

“Before he took the shot,” d’Artagnan rubbed a hand over his chin as he thought, “Joseph called him a murderer. You think this Marmion feels the same?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised… Yanick had his critics. There were plenty that disagreed with his foreign policy. I know it was Joseph who fired the gun, but I’d put money there being someone pulling the strings. Why get your hands dirty yourself if you’ve got an emotionally unstable kid to do it for you…”

The idea of the kid used in such a way made Athos’ stomach twist in rage. Cowards hid behind another’s actions, kept their hands free of blood while tugging at puppet strings. Controlling those weaker. His gaze slid back to d’Artagnan who was currently frowning at his computer screen. His ex-apprentice knew that problem. Their first meeting felt like a life time ago. It was hard to imagine a time where the Unit 2 office would have felt complete without his presence, but Athos supposed it hadn’t _actually_ been that long ago that d’Artagnan had been Charles, a boy completely under the control of Rochefort. The boy Athos had met back then was not the same as the man across the room. The man had grown in ways Athos would have never imagined, but, really, it would have been all too easy for him to have ended up like Joseph. Dead, on the floor, following another’s orders.

Athos barely supressed a flinch.

D’Artagnan looked up from his lap top, oblivious to his mentor’s inner monologue.

“How are you spelling it?”

Athos frowned, tugged out of his own thoughts by the question, “What?”

“Marmion?” d’Artagnan prompted, his eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“M–A-R-M-I-O-N?” Athos guessed, a moment later watching d’Artagnan tap on the keyboard, “I’ve checked our database. If it’s a name then we have no information on it.”

“Right…” d’Artagnan trailed off, his finger scrolling down his lap top’s touch pad. A little while later d’Artagnan gave out a little ‘huh’. His eyes suddenly narrowed which peeked Athos’ interest.

“What? Found something?”

“Maybe…” d’Artagnan ran a hand over his smooth jaw, “Jean-Luc Laurette… There’s a couple of articles here. Apparently the guy is vocal in the anti-war movement. He was a high up in the _One World_ movement until two years ago. He was caught by some undercover reporter saying the anti-war movement would get nothing with their ‘ _navel gazing´_ , ‘ _lovey’_ attitude. After it hit the press he was expelled from the group, went quiet for about six months, before he crops up in the media again, this time with his own band of followers. They call themselves ‘Fire with Fire’…”

D’Artagnan seemed hopeful as his voice trailed off and looked up, clearly expecting Athos to see the connection. Sadly, Athos was lost.

“So the guy is an anti-war nut…” Athos leaned forward, head resting on his hands, “What’s the connection here?”

“Before Laurette got into politics he was a performer, a magician…” d’Artagnan took hold of his laptop and spun it round so Athos could see the screen. A photograph filled the space; the man in his early forties had tanned skin with light sandy hair and blue eyes. He could have been handsome had his features not been twisted in disgust. Clearly the photograph had been snapped in the middle of a rally speech. “His stage name was the Magical Marmion.”

* * *

 

“No.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Then I’ll say it again. No.”

“Athos you are being unreasonable.”

“My answer is no.”

The four members of Unit 2 stood in their Captain’s office. Athos had gone to Treville with d’Artagnan’s findings and, once Treville had checked the information out himself, had summoned the four men into his presence. Currently he was sat at his desk, his eyes narrowing as they focused on the leader of Unit 2 who was precariously close to insubordination.

With a sigh Treville pushed to himself to his feet, wondering yet again if he was getting to old to fight with men as stubborn as Athos.

“They might be your team, Athos, but you were _all_ my men and you _will_ go where you are told. If Laurette or Fire with Fire were responsible for the assassination the late Minister then we need them stopped. The best way to do that is from the inside.”

“He is too youn - new to be sent undercover!” Athos snapped.

“ _He_ is right here!” d’Artagnan glared at his leader from his spot next to Aramis, “And I am _not_ too young!”

Athos brushed off the comment, “I never said that.”

“You as good as did!”

“That is enough, both of you!” Treville’s hands pressed heavily against the table, “I have made my decision. I want two of your team _inside_ that organisation within the week. Porthos and d’Artagnan, there are no other options. Aramis, you are not back to full health and Athos? You would never be trusted by an anti-war movement when you ooze army out of every single pore.”

“I do not!” Athos blustered.

“Athos,” Porthos leaned forward and offered a kind of stage whisper which everyone in the room heard, “You’re standin’ in the at ease position…”

“I am not-“ Athos looked down at his arms, where were in fact folded behind his back, and his feet which were planted shoulder-width apart. He pulled his arms to the front of his body, as if to prove Porthos wrong, but looked wholly unsure about what to do with them next. In the end he just tucked them back behind his back, where they belonged. “Oh just stay out of it, Porthos!”

Porthos snorted, but stepped back into formation next to a, smirking, Aramis.

Athos resisted the urge to turn and offer the men one of his best “stay silent or suffer my wrath” glares.

“Captain I -“

“I’m not listening to any more, Athos.” Treville’s hand moved to rub at his temple. There was definitely a headache coming on. Bloody Athos, bloody stubbornness. He was losing what little patience he had with the man in front of him. “I am not asking for your permission to use your team. I am informing you of your orders. If you continue to have _issues_ with my decision then I will have someone else head up the operation. Your choice!”

Athos opened his mouth, as if to continue arguing, but eventually shut it again. Treville was tempted to give a sigh of relief. That was the correct decision, after all Treville _wanted_ Athos overseeing the undercover operation, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be replaced. Clearly Athos realised that as well.

“Is there anything else, _Captain?”_ Athos forced out eventually.

“No,” Treville said, deciding to ignore the fact Athos looked like he was about to punch someone, “The pair will need back stories, fake identification, but I assume you are aware of that. You’re all dismissed.”

The moment the magic words were said Athos spun and shoved passed his team and out the door. d’Artagnan opened his mouth, ready to follow, but Aramis’ hand fell on his shoulder.

“d’Artagnan don’t, give him a chance to –“

But the boy had pushed passed the hand before he had a chance to finish speaking. Aramis didn’t try to stop him a second time as d’Artagnan stormed from the room. With a sigh Aramis offered Porthos a long suffering look.

“Well here we go…”

* * *

 

d’Artagnan stalked down the corridor after his mentor.

“Athos!”

The older man didn’t even falter at the call, which only inflamed his anger further. d’Artagnan broke into a jog and caught up with Athos just after he entered the stairwell.

“You don’t get to say shit like that and then just walk away!”

d’Artagnan danced around Athos until they faced each other. The glare he received surprised the younger man. Athos really was furious. He had expected annoyance that he had been overruled by the Captain, but what he saw was pure rage.

“You…” d’Artagnan swallowed, hurt creasing up around his eyes, “You really don’t think I can do this…”

The look Athos gave him was one of frustration, “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“Oh yea?” d’Artagnan’s arms crossed in front of his stomach, “Well it sounds like you don’t trust me. A year of training! Eighteen months of working alongside you and all of a sudden you don’t trust me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“You said as much to Treville. What have I done to lose your trust so spectacularly? I’ve done _everything_ expected of me, I’ve passed every test! I’ve stood by you and watched your back every time we’re in the field, so tell me what I could have possibly done for you to decide that I can’t be trusted.”

With a sigh d’Artagnan fell silent, watching his mentor’s face. Something flickered across Athos’ face, some kind of emotion although the name escaped d’Artagnan. He almost looked… Ill. Like something was twisting inside stomach, squeezing and constricting and pushing the contents of his stomach up his oesophagus.

“This,” Athos choked out finally, “Has _nothing_ to do with trust.”

d’Artagnan frowned, “Then what? What have I done?”

Finally, finally, Athos’ face fell. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, which already stood up in every direction. When he finally looked at the younger man the fiery rage in his gaze had been extinguished. He just looked… well worried.

“You have no idea do you?”

“No,” d’Artagnan admitted, “To be honest I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Athos just sighed. For a minute there was silence in the stairwell. Well d’Artagnan was willing to wait. His bruised honour demanded it.

Eventually Athos sighed again, but this time it was at least followed by words.

“I trust you d’Artagnan…” Athos swallowed around the words, as if only just working out how to form them, “I trust your motives, your skills. The fact I don’t want you going undercover… It has nothing to do with trust.”

“Then what?”

More silence. Athos’ gaze slide from the younger man as he stared off into space, forming exactly what he wanted to say.

“The look Joseph give me before he shot himself, the way he talked about Marmion… He was controlled by that man. He shot the gun but it sure as hell wasn’t his decision. It was in his eyes. The panic… Before yesterday I hadn’t seen that look since…” Athos blew out a breath, his eyes fluttering closed. d’Artagnan just waited… Patience was not normally a virtue attributed to the young man, but keeping quiet this time did pay off. Athos, finally began to speak again.

“Well since you gave me it back in that cell.”

Whatever d’Artagnan had been expecting… Well it hadn’t been that. It felt like a knock to the stomach.

Those first few days of what would become a friendship were not something d’Artagnan liked to focus on. What he had witnessed in that room, what he had witnessed Athos’ own brother do, still sent a shiver convulsing through his body. He had wanted to help, every cell in his body had _screamed_ at him to help, but he couldn’t. He had been utterly powerless.

“Joseph made me think…” Athos shook his head, “What if Rochefort had refused to help Thomas? Or you weren’t forced to guard me? What if they had just killed me outright and we had never met? When I saw Joseph dead on the floor I couldn’t help but think…”

Athos trailed off yet again, but d’Artagnan finished the sentence off in his own mind.

_How it could have been you…_

Slowly the annoyance and frustration ebbed out of him.

“Athos…”

d’Artagnan stepped forward to rest a hand on his shoulder but the older man shook his head and stepped out of reach.

“I have every assurance that you know how to handle yourself. I trust you, I’d trust you with my life but the idea of you back around someone who excerpts such control… It leaves me uneasy.”

“I’m not that kid anymore, Athos.”

“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” Athos snapped, cringing a little before carrying on more calmly, “I know how good you are. I _trained_ you. You’re a good agent d’Artagnan but that doesn’t mean I have to be _happy_ about sending you back to the sort of men you only _just_ escaped from! Now, if are quite satisfied…”

D’Artagnan stood, a little shocked, as Athos sidestepped around him and slammed out of the door, leaving the man alone, dumbfounded, in the stairwell.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 3 - I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kind words and comments, you have no idea how much it means to me!

 

The pair didn’t speak about d’Artagnan’s undercover mission again. Athos seemed perfectly happy to pretend the conversation never happened and d’Artagnan honoured his wish. Aramis and Porthos watched their teammates with a slight unease, knowing full well that some kind of altercation had taken place if not exactly what. They knew better than to ask as they prepared for the upcoming mission, knowing it would only fuel the argument into re-ignition. Instead they focused on preparing fake passports and drivers licenses, creating back stories and sourcing safe houses. d’Artagnan made it home only to explain to Constance about what was about to happen. She hadn’t been happy, how could she be? But there was no way of avoiding it. Constance did a better job of accepting that fact than Athos had.

The next night there were ready. Unit 6 had been tasked with following Marmion since he had come to the Musketeers’ attention. The man was rarely alone. He normally had at least three of his followers around him, one younger man in particular. After running his photograph the man was identified as Mael Thomas, a 19 year old French born with a few arrests for breaches of the peace and resisting arrest. It seemed he had been a regular on the protest circuit in some way since he was 14. The pair seemed close, pretty much every photo of Marmion from the last 18 months contained Mael close at his side. There were a few more regular faces identified, and by the time d’Artagnan was sat in the fake taxi driving through the darkened Paris streets, he had them all memorised.

Aramis looked in the rear view mirror from under his hat, catching d’Artagnan’s gaze for a second before returning it to the road.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan nodded, ignoring the nervous knot in his stomach.

Porthos settled a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder, “You’re ready for this, Pup. I’m beside you every step. Hear me?”

“Uh, huh…”

Porthos gave him a supportive squeeze as Aramis pulled up alongside the pub they knew Marmion and his group were in. Athos was already sat, eyeing the group from behind a class of cider. Athos had sent a bitter text to Aramis about his choice of drink, but the pub was hardly the sort you could order a glass of chardonnay and not stick out like a nun in a night club.

Once the car was parked Aramis turned round, pretending to sort payment.

“Do me a favour, don’t get yourselves killed,” Aramis passed over a couple of euros with a wink, “I don’t want to break in a new puppy. Make contact every twenty-four hours, extraction word is Christmas.”

d’Artagnan nodded. He pulled a small bottle of whisky from his pocket and splashed a liberal amount against his neck and over his tongue. He already knew the procedure, but it was good to hear it again.

“Right then,” Aramis drew back, smiling brightly as he wiped a fake tear from his eye, “Of you two go then. Daddy’s so proud!”

Porthos rolled his eyes. He tumbled out of the cab, d’Artagnan following a moment after. They paused only for a moment to watch Aramis drive off, ignoring two men that tried to hail his fake taxi.

Once the car was out of sight Porthos turned, a hand on their youngest’s shoulder, and they headed toward the pub’s door.

D’Artagnan had felt rather scruffy, dressed in worn jeans and a off colour hoodie under a beaten up leather jacket, but he fit right in inside the run down establishment. In a once over he noted Athos in a booth by the far window, and their marks in a back corner. Although he couldn’t see Marmion, he could see the dark wavy hair which belonged to Mael. He’d be there… d’Artagnan was sure of it.

They didn’t make eye contact with Athos as they crossed the bar and took a seat with a view of the TV screen. The heavy metal of his wedding ring, hidden under his clothes, hit against d’Artagnan’s chest as he sat. He couldn’t wear the thing of course, not without attracting questions, so hidden on a chain under clothing was the next best thing.

Porthos left for the bar which was deserted apart from a few patrons slumped at the bar and returned a few minutes later with two pints.

“Time check?” Porthos muttered as he sat down.

d’Artagnan’s gaze flickered to his phone and then back up, “Twelve minutes until the next news bulletin.”

“Better drink up then,” Porthos’ gaze sparkled with mischief, “We’ll be needing a refill soon.”

The pair talked about nothing much, just filling the silence as they downed their drinks. At two minutes too ten d’Artagnan’s glass was empty, as was Athos’. The younger man watched as Athos sidled to the bar, following him a moment later. As suggested d’Artagnan added a slight sway to his step, as if he’d had far more to drink than just one pint.

Athos had ordered himself another cider as the news began on TV. Two presenters appeared behind a desk. Their faces wore matching expressions of grief, their solemn words filtering out into the little space.

“The Late Prime Minister, Gaston Yanick,’s funeral is set to be held in Notre Dame Cathedral, commencing at 11 am tomorrow, following his assassination. Politicians from across France and Europe are expected to attend to pay their respects, including the Prime Minister of Spain, the Prince of England and the Duchess of Cambridge. In an interview earlier today Government officials stated that security teams are still on alert. A two minute silence will be held at midday tomorrow to remember the late Prime Minister and the good works undertaken during his three years in office…”

Showtime… d’Artagnan shoved himself away from the bar in fake disgust.

“Isaac!” d’Artagnan called over his shoulder, his voice purposefully two loud for the small room, “They want a two minute silence for the b-bastard!”

“For his good works,” Porthos crowed back, “If you find any let me know!”

He slapped the table and let out a deep laugh, d’Artagnan followed suit, laughing along. As predicted Athos looked up and gave his friend a cold glare.

“Do you mind?” Athos drawled in his trade mark mixture of distain and boredom, “Have some class. A man has just died.”

“And good fu-fucking riddens!” d’Artagnan let his lips curled in a drunken sneer, “The world’s a better place without the ssssnake!”

“Do you have no respect?”

d’Artagnan took half a step back, his eyes narrowing as his eyes slide up and down Athos.

“Not f-for murderers like him. All he did was drag us all into everything, every war, gets our men killed while he sits in some comfy office. He got what was coming to him!”

Athos’ eyes narrowed, “You’re disgusting!”

“My only regret,” d’Artagnan raised his eyebrow. He couldn’t tell if the targets were looking, even paying attention. He honestly had no idea if their little charade was working, if it didn’t then… Well there wasn’t really a plan B.

“My only regret,” d’Artagnan repeated, finger stabbing into his friend’s chest, “is that I didn’t put a bullet in him myself!”

And, just on cue, Athos punched him in the face with an alarming crunch. D’Artagnan cursed out, staggering backward as he clutched his jaw, only half acting.

Somewhere in the background the bar tender shouted, setting down the glass he was cleaning and striding over.

“You punched me, you fucki-“ d’Artagnan lunged, but as planned Porthos was suddenly there, pushing d’Artagnan firmly back.

“Don’t Charles, he isn’t worth it!”

Being called Charles again was slightly jarring, but d’Artagnan pushed passed the discomfort to carry on with the plan.

“Get out of my way, Isaac!”

“What?” Athos shouted over Porthos’ shoulder, “You need your friend to protect you? You scared?”

“Say that to my face, I dare you!”

“That’s it!” The bartender stepped in next to fray, although was glaring at Athos, not d’Artagnan, “You’re done. Out! Before I call the police.”

Athos’ lips curled in a sneer he directed at d’Artagnan.

“Fine. Fine. I was done here anyway. Enjoy your drink, Savage.”

With one more glare Athos turned and stalked from the bar. D’Artagnan watched his friend go, only vaguely aware of the bartender asking if he was okay and offering him some ice.

“Yea… Yea thanks,” he muttered a little absently as he watched the door swing shut behind his friend.

* * *

 

Aramis hit the car’s accelerator the moment Athos had slammed the passenger door shut.

“How did it go?”

“Too early to tell…” Athos settled his elbow on the lip of the car window, his fingers rubbing tired circles around his eyes.

Aramis risked a small glance at his leader before returning his gaze to the road, “But you completed the plan?”

Despite his nervousness Athos did summon the smallest of smirks, “Oh yes, I punched d’Artagnan in the face.”

Aramis chuckled a little. He pulled seamlessly onto the motorway, back towards the Garrison.

“Try not to sound to cut up about it.”

“Perk of the job…” Athos fell silent, looking out into the darkness which swallowed up the car. Uneasiness still sat heavily in his chest. This whole mission stirred apprehension in his stomach. d’Artagnan could look after himself, Athos knew the boy had all the skills needed to complete his orders.

And yet… His gut screamed at him to order Aramis to turn the car around and call the whole thing off. Maybe he was just too close to this, too close to the people involved. Perhaps he had lost his objectivity, lost the big picture.

He sighed, yet again, eyes squeezing closed as Aramis spoke up.

“I guess we just wait for a phone call, one way or another…”

* * *

 

Not long after d’Artagnan and Porthos had settled back at their table, ice settled on the younger man’s cheekbone, the barman approached their table. He nodded to the pair and set down two pints of the beer they had been drinking.

d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, “We didn’t order these.”

The barman offered a shrug and cocked his head toward the table in the corner, “From them. Apparently they’re more sympathetic than the guy who clocked you…”

“Huh…” d’Artagnan was careful to stop the look of glee from spreading over his face. He took the glass, “Well I’d take this over a punch any day…”

Porthos took his own glass. He caught his teammate’s eye with a sparkle from over the lip, “Well it would be rude not to say thanks for our gifts.”

They stood, drinks in hand, and approached the back booth. d’Artagnan couldn’t quite ignore the nervous swell in his stomach, the excitement of coming face to face with their mark for the first time. He knew how much of this mission relied on him, Treville had made it clear. Marmion seemed to go for the young and impulsive; people he could mould and manipulate. Porthos wouldn’t fit that description in a million Sundays, however d’Artagnan could. Building the relationship would be down to him.

No pressure then.

An easy smile, which was in fact anything but easy, slid across d’Artagnan’s face as they came to a stop in front of the booth. The three faces which sat there were all those he recognised. A young guy, Samuel Laine, sat the closest to the outside. He was tall and lanky with short cropped hair and grey piercing eyes. Next to him was the man d’Artagnan had noticed from behind, Mael Thomas. And in the furthest corner by the wall sat Jean-Luc Laurette, the Magical Marmion. d’Artagnan swallowed, resisting the urge to shoot a glance at Porthos.

“Hear a thanks is in order,” Porthos lifted his glass in appreciation.

d’Artagnan mirrored Porthos’ action with a nod of thanks, “I appreciate it a damn sight more than what the last guy gave me…”

Marmion held d’Artagnan’s gaze for a moment, as if giving him the once over, before finally offering a smile.

“Sadly there is little accounting for taste,” Marmion’s hand waved lazily at the empty seats in the booth, “Care to join us?”

Porthos shot d’Artagnan a glance, as if considering the offer, before shrugging, “Sure.”

“How’s your jaw?” Marmion asked once both men had sat down.

d’Artagnan raised a hand and touched his cheek gingerly. There was a slight swelling along his cheek bone and he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bruise forming. In the end he just shrugged.

“Some people just can’t handle reality…”

Marmion barked out a laugh, “Truer words never spoken,” He held out a hand over the table, “Name’s Laurette, but most call me Marmion.”

d’Artagnan reached out and took the hand first, “Charles Bernard.”

“Isaac Fournier,” Porthos nodded in greeting when it was his turn.

“Pleasure,” Marmion motioned to either side, “This is Mael and Samuel, friends of mine.”

Introductions complete d’Artagnan sat back, sipping his pint as Marmion began to speak again.

“Do you made a habit of shouting about treason in bars, Charles?” Marmion asked. It was posed as a flippant question, humorous even, but d’Artagnan was sure there was something else behind it. Something… Testing.

d’Artagnan shrugged non-comitally, looking at his drink as if considering the question.

“When it’s worth it I guess…”

“And you think _this_ is?” Marmion asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Why?”

“Murders shouldn’t be allowed to sit in some million euro pent house. They shouldn’t get to sip wine and eat fine food while they sent thousands of people into their death,” d’Artagnan scrubbed a hand through his hair, a hostile glare on his face.

“He deserved everything and more. It’s only a pity his death was quick…”

Marmion nodded, a hand running over his chin, “And the new one? The new Prime Minister? What do you think?”

The mention of Royaline surprised d’Artagnan, but he covered it well enough with a snort, “Different voice, same shit… It’s always the same.”

“Huh…” The conversation lulled a little. d’Artagnan wondered a little nervously whether he had come on too strong. Perhaps his answers were too raw, maybe served as a red flag. If he had… Well he would be furious with himself, as would their Captain. Athos would probably be secretly glad the undercover operation had died a death before it had begun, an idea that infuriated him despite their honest conversation.

Marmion drained the last of his beer and lent forward. His fingers laced together on the table, his gaze sliding from d’Artagnan to Porthos and back to d’Artagnan.

“Tell me, boys,” Marmion’s voice dropped a little, forcing the men to lean into the table, “Have you ever heard of the group Fire with Fire?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here's Chapter 4! Thank you so much for you feedback, kudos and views! You have NO idea how much I adore reading them. They mean so, so much.
> 
> Anyway! On with the chapter! Enjoy!

Two weeks into the assignment saw Athos becoming restless. Two weeks without his whole team, without his complete set of brothers by his side. Aramis was doing his best, over compensating for the quiet moments with loud jokes and light hearted remarks. Athos, although he appreciated the sentiment, was about ready to strangle the man. That particular day Athos had sent Aramis home before him in an attempt of snatching some piece, while he waited in the office for the undercover team to make contact.

It was a little after 11 o’clock at night when the phone rang. Not Athos’ phone, but the undercover phone. Athos had the handset with him at all times, day or night, on the volume’s loudest setting.

Despite the fact it rung dutifully every night, the buzz still set his heart thundering. What if something was wrong…

“Tuscan Funeral home,” Athos answered on the third ring, “For all your afterlife needs.”

“I still think that is a stupid greeting,” d’Artagnan snorted down the phone.

Athos relaxed in his chair, hearing the humour in his friend’s voice. “You’re lucky. Aramis wanted to go with ‘Tuscan Funeral Home, you stab ‘em, we slab ‘em’… What would you prefer me to say? ‘Undercover special agent, Athos speaking’?”

“Isn’t there anything, you know, in the middle?”

“Demanding little squirt aren’t you?” Athos teased.

“I have to fit into the team somehow…”

Athos shook his head, his free hand rubbing over his brow. It was good to hear from the young man, not that he’d ever admit it but he missed the kid. “Anything to report?”

The sigh d’Artagnan gave Athos the distinct impression that he was stretching, “We had another meeting tonight. No new faces, same conversations. They’re still talking about Royaline. His pledge to continue the work that Yanick began has sent Marmion into a spin. He’s furious. Spent most of the meeting ranting about how nothing has changed, that the politicians have learned nothing. His men still hand on his every word, I’ve never seen anything like it…”

“Oh really?

“It’s weird Athos… I mean his followers would follow him across the country if that’s what he demanded. It’s weird…”

“Anything else?”

There was a heartbeat of hesitation down the phone.

Athos frowned, anxiety churning as silence pressed down the phone. “d’Artagnan?” He pressed.

“Well after the meeting… I went out the back, for some air. I know I should have had my head in the game but…” d’Artagnan paused and Athos heard a heavy sigh. “Listening to all that anger, I just needed to clear my head…”

“Did something… Happen?” Athos felt his nerves spike in his chest. Rationally he knew d’Artagnan wasn’t in danger, or at least any more danger than he had been in the last two weeks. He had his extraction word. If d’Artagnan, or Porthos, needed out all they had to say was _Christmas_.

“Sort of. Marmion was talking, at first I thought he was on the phone then I realised there was someone else there.”

Athos frowned, “Who?”

“I didn’t see. The alley was dark but Marmion sounded like he was buying something. I didn’t hear what, only that it would _teach the politicians for not hearing his warnings._ That it was time for something _drastic.”_

“You heard him say that?”

“Yea… He looked like he wanted to say more, but I let the door slam behind me and he turned around,” d’Artagnan sighed down the phone, “Sorry. I really hadn’t expected him to be there. When he turned around he, well he sent me inside. I didn’t manage to hear anything else.”

“You couldn’t have known what you were walking in on,” Athos reasoned. He knew, he just knew, that d’Artagnan would be beating himself up for the mistake. There was no point in him doing it too, “What you heard is something to go on. Good work. Don’t force anything but keep poking around, we need to know what this ‘drastic’ event is.”

“I can do that.” d’Artagnan sounded a little relieved that Athos wasn’t irritated with his slip-up. There was a pause, the silence of hesitation and then, “Have you, uh, heard from Constance?”

In fact Athos had. Constance was not one to be left out of the loop and, while she understood that she couldn’t talk with d’Artagnan, Athos was fair game. He’d had five phone calls from her over the last two weeks.

“She’s fine, d’Artagnan. I spoke with her a few day ago. She said, and I quote, _‘get hurt and I’ll kill you_ ’.”

d’Artagnan snorted, which made Athos smile tiredly.

“Sounds like her…”

Athos knew d’Artagnan worried, it was hard for him not too. Constance and d’Artagnan’s journey had been anything but easy, Athos was aware of how they had struggled and how they had almost lost their chance at freedom. d’Artagnan had every reason to be concerned, every reason in the world to expect the worst from the world, apart from one. His wife was a _very_ tough woman.

“I know I’m probably wasting my breath,” In fact, Athos was _sure_ he was wasting his breath, “But you don’t need to worry about her. Constance is strong. I’m not going to lie, she misses you but she’s safe. Not that she needs us, but you know Aramis and I would be there if she asked. Nothing is going to happen to her, so you need to keep your head focused.”

“You’re… You’re right…” d’Artagnan’s breath came out in one long rush, “And I hate you for it…”

Athos smirked and thought it best to change the subject. “And Porthos? How is he?”

“He’s fine. Frustrated about being on the fringes but fine.”

“Damn it…” They had thought this might have happened. Marmion’s followers tended to be young, headstrong, malleable. Porthos was none of those things. Without even saying anything, Porthos was strong, imposing. He oozed an air of quiet confidence which clearly Marmion had taken a disliking to. He would be easily seen as threat to Marmion’s command. It was no surprise really that he was being kept at a suspicious distance.

“We knew this might happen… Tell him not to push it. We can’t have him seeming too over eager, it will look suspicious if he tries too hard. Marmion seems to trust you, that’s a good start. We can afford for Porthos to take a step back. Not all together, I’m not leaving you there alone, but he can stay on the side lines.”

“We can do that…” d’Artagnan said around a yawn. “I think Marmion trusts me, or at least is beginning too.”

“How could he not? A head strong teenager wrapped in a man’s body. What not to love?”

“If I wasn’t so tired I’d take some serious offence to that…”

Athos chuckled quietly, “Go to bed, d’Artagnan. You’re no good to us exhausted.”

“I bet I could say the same to you,” d’Artagnan pointed out, “How many nights have you spent at home since I’ve been gone?”

 _Four…_ Athos admitted, if only to himself.

“What matters here is you, d’Artagnan. You’re undercover. You can’t afford to get tired and sloppy.”

“And I’ll take your refusal of an answer as an answer in itself.” d’Artagnan sounded so smug Athos’s hands were almost twitching to strangle him. “Goodnight, Athos.”

“Night, d’Artagnan…”

* * *

 

d’Artagnan ended the call with Athos and stretched out on his tiny bed. If Constance had been there she would have called him a cat. The thought of his wife dampened his mood and, not for the first time, d’Artagnan had to fight of the temptation to call her. He couldn’t… d’Artagnan knew that, but it didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

Carefully he picked up his wedding ring, which was resting against his bare chest, and ran his fingers gently over the gold.

The feelings which currently churned in his stomach weren’t the same as his first nine months in Paris, but they were certainly similair. Being separated from his wife threw up emotions from his time in the Guard. He wanted to see her, to see with his own eyes she was safe… Of course the reasons for their separation were different, he had chosen this for himself, but it still left him uneasy. It wasn’t the same, and he knew that, but being cut off from her so completely summoned familiar moods.

The one saving grace was Athos looking out for her. Not that Constance needed protecting. She had learned for their earlier mistakes, nothing of that sort would ever happen again. d’Artagnan trusted her, but it was still reassuring to know Athos and Aramis were only a phone call away if she needed them – since he couldn’t be.

d’Artagnan, as he did every night, brought the gold to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the cool metal. It wasn’t the same as Constance. It wasn’t her wild hair or pale neck or soft body which he so often curled around in sleep, but it was better than nothing.

He curled up, arm tucked around carefully around a pillow, eyes closed to the dark little room. His breathing had just begun to even out when his phone buzzed violently against the bedside table. d’Artagnan groaned, his hand stretching out blindly, searching for the source of the noise. If this was Athos…

The name _Marmion_ flashed with the intensity of the sun across the screen. That very fact woke him up instantly. He pushed himself clumsily up in bed as he pressed the accept button.

“Charles?” Marmion demanded before the phone was even at d’Artagnan’s ear, “Where are you?”

“In bed?” d’Artagnan only half faked a yawn, “It’s almost midnight…”

“Right right…” There was traffic noise in the background. D’Artagnan frowned, where was Marmion? “I’m heading to a meeting. I’ve got some business to attend to and I need someone to watch my back. Mael isn’t picking up his phone, can I count on you?”

d’Artagnan threw his legs over the side of the bed, his free hand scrubbing through his loose hair. It tickled across his bare shoulders and neck.

“Of course. Where shall I meet you? Should I call Isaac?”

“Perhaps…” Marmion’s voice trailed off for a second, “Yes. Yes you should. We could use some muscle. We don’t have much time...”

“Marmion?” d’Artagnan prompted, “Where can I meet you?”

Marmion muttered an address which d’Artagnan scrambled to write down.

“Be there in half an hour.”

“Half an – Right, right… I’ll be there.”

The line went dead without any more niceties. d’Artagnan frowned at the phone for a moment, before speed dialling Porthos as he began to throw on clothes.

“Something’s up,” d’Artagnan called towards the phone as he fastened the fly on his jeans, “Marmion’s just called. Wants us with him for a meeting.”

“Both of us?” Porthos sounded sleepy but surprised, “Me too?”

d’Artagnan tried to answer as he tugged his t-shirt over his head, failed, then tried again when his head was free.

“Said he heeds the muscle, sounded stressed… Meet you at yours in 10?”

“Can do.”

By the time Porthos muttered a goodbye d’Artagnan was fully dressed. He stuffed his phone, wallet and keys into the pockets of the leather jacket and let himself out into the cold, dark air.

The night had certainly taken an unexpected turn.

* * *

 

Marmion was pacing in front of the warehouse door, his huffed breaths crystallising and forming icy clouds around his face. Porthos shot d’Artagnan a sideways glance. What was this about? d’Artagnan offered up the smallest of shrugs. Right now Porthos knew as much as he did.

The pair were pretty close to the older man by the time we looked up with a frown.

“You’re late.”

Porthos, who was tired and trying his very best not to be cranky, bit his tongue as not to point out that they were actually five minutes _early._

He shot a look at d’Artagnan, but the boy barely noticed. Instead a frown creased his brow as he looked at the warehouse door. Uneasiness prickled his stomach as he took in the imposing warehouse. Something, _something_ , tickled at the edge of his memory, but the something danced just out of reach.

“So who are we meetin’?” Porthos’ voice drew d’Artagnan out of his thoughts. He shoved the uncomfortable niggling feeling to the back of his mind, focusing his attention on the men in front of him.

“An associate of mine. I have some business to attend too.” Marmion’s gaze flicked over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, suddenly he smirked.

d’Artagnan turned. Mael was walking towards the group. He frowned. Hadn’t Marmion said Mael wasn’t coming?

“What the…” Porthos muttered, only loud enough for d’Artagnan to hear. The discomfort had gone from prickles to stabbing. Something was wrong.

“Mael!” Marmion called out, “come join us!”

“Sorry I’m late, Marmion,” Mael’s eyes slide from his boss to the two other men. d’Artagnan shifted under the gaze.

“Got hold of him then?” Porthos sounded like he was attempting to add some humour to his voice, “What were you doin’ Mael? Hot date?”

d’Artagnan turned back. He allowed the conversation to flow around him was he looked, _really_ looked, at where they were. He hadn’t recognised the address, he was sure of that much.

But the warehouse…

If it had been in the light, if the place had looked a little less shabby. If there’d been someone drawling out his old name as if he was permanently bored…

“ _You’re not going to embarrass me are you, Charles? My employer might not be as kind as me if faced with your insolence.”_

Ice cold recollection hit him with the strength of a battering-ram. He hadn’t recognised the address because he’d never been _given_ it, just directions of where to drive.

“Isaac,” d’Artagnan cut across his friend’s awkward story about some fictional first date, “Did I ever tell you about that red head I dated? Looked exactly like a _Christmas_ elf.”

Porthos jerked. The word hanging between them, weighted heavily with d’Artagnan’s silent panic. His eyes darted to look at his partner, question dancing in his eyes. But the _why_ didn’t matter. All that mattered was the word was out. Porthos’ hand dug into his pocket, hitting the speed dial on his phone as the door behind Marmion opened.

“Marmion!” The voice, laced with a sickly sweet false sincerity, sent d’Artagnan’s feet stumbling backwards. He only managed two steps before something cold and unyielding pressed into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t move…” Mael pushed the gun harder into d’Artagnan’s back as a silent threat.

“Hey!” Porthos was about to take a step forward but with a gun in his teammate’s back thought better of it, “We don’ need guns! We’re all friends here, what’s goin-“

“Oh shut him up…” With a flick of Marmion’s wrist a man slid out from the shadow. He swung at Porthos with the butt of the gun and the man crumpled. There was no way, no _way_ , Porthos hadn’t even raised a hand to reflect the blow. He the top ranked Musketeer in hand to hand combat and he hadn’t even put up a _fight_. But he wouldn’t, d’Artagnan realised with icy clarity. Porthos would never fight back when a gun was pressing into his friend’s back.

“You brought my delivery!” Richelieu stepped out of doorway, ignoring the man on the floor, a wide Cheshire Cat grin splitting his face.

Something seemed to take a choke hold on d’Artagnan’s throat as the man’s eyes roamed over him. Memories of their last encounter flooded behind his eyes. The panic after receiving texts from Constance’s phone. The cold flood of reality which had crashed over him when he’d realised he had been played. The bang of the gun and the explosion of pain in his stomach.

Richelieu had never meant for him to survive that night. That had been the punishment fort turning on the Guard, for testifying against Rochefort. How Richelieu had found him was a mystery, but there was no way he’d allow d’Artagnan to escape a second time.

“Take him inside,” Richelieu snapped at Marmion, who motioned to Mael. “The other one too.”

The gun was shoved hard against d’Artanan’s back and forced his feet to take a step forward, toward the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Goodness!! I have never had so much feedback - positive feedback! Thank you so much! 
> 
> Here's the next chapter - I hope you enjoy!

‘How lucky, Charles,” Richelieu leaned down into his face, so close that d’Artagnan could see every wrinkle and grey hair, “To find you. I kept an eye of the papers after our last encounter. After there was no body reported I realised you must have survived our little talk. Pity, a pity…”

His breath was hot and sticky with cigar smoke. D’Artagnan pulled back, but the bonds keeping his limbs in place were tight. There was nowhere to go. Porthos, head still clumped to the side and out cold, had received the same treatment. d’Artagnan could see the large welt forming on his dark temple, but at least his chest was rising and falling steadily.

d’Artagnan sent up a quick prayer for his friend, just on the off chance someone was listening, but he had bigger problems right now. He had thought, _really_ thought, Marmion had trusted him. What business did he have with Richelieu? How had Richelieu even known where to look?

Breaths were coming in thick for d’Artagnan, dragging air threw his lungs felt like trying to breathe treacle. Suffocating.

“It’s fate, Charles, that your new boss needed something from me. How lucky he was willing to trade you for it…” Richelieu drew backward, a hand twitching the cufflinks of his grey suit back into place as he looked at Marmion. “And to think, I wouldn’t have even known where you were if not for your little stumble on our meeting. And lucky for Marmion...”

d’Artagnan’s body stiffened. Richelieu _couldn’t_ know what was going on between Marmion and the Musketeers. He didn’t know about the Musketeers. There was no way for him to know!

“He’s not happy with you….” Richelieu nodded toward the other man. Marmion had been silent as Richelieu had directed the two men to be restrained. His arms had stayed crossed over his chest, back leaning against the wall as he watched with a glare. “Imagine his surprise when he found out his newest companion, newest recruit, was a police snitch.”

Marmion’s gaze darkened, eyes narrowed on d’Artagnan’s face. Rage twisted his features which made d’Artagnan swallow nervously. He shook his head.

“Marmion whatever – _whatever_ \- that man told you is a lie,” d’Artagnan shuddered. He attempted to catch the man’s gaze, but Marmion was looking elsewhere. “I’m no snitch. I believe in your cause. I believe in you! You approached me, us, not the other way around!”

“After your little display in that bar,” Marmion’s voice was flat, “Mael warned me it was too coincidental. I just thought you were another for the cause, another soldier to fight for change.”

“I _am_!” d’Artagnan wrenched his body forward, “We are!”

“So you went from snitch to activist in less than a year?” Marmion scoffed, “You lied. I trusted you and you _lied_.”

Richelieu shook his head pittingly. “You’ll find he’s good at that Marmion. Lying. He worked in my organisation for a time too. Trusted him, right up until he sided with the police and got one of my _best_ men thrown in jail.”

“I never WORKED for you!” d’Artagnan exploded finally. His hands balled into fists, not that they were much good tied to a chair. “You kept me as a _slave_! You threatened my wife to make sure I did what you want!”

“More lies…” Richelieu shook his head pityingly, “Marmion you were lucky I was here to warn you. I hate to think what could have happened if he had continued on unchecked.”

d’Artagnan shook his head, he couldn’t believe the whole operation was all falling down around his ears. He’d just told Athos that it was going well, and it had been! How had this gone so wrong..?

Richelieu seemed to be finished taunting him for now. He turned to Marmion.

“I’ll take our dear Charles and his friend a payment in full. If you go next door, you’ll find what I promised.”

Marmion nodded. He turned his back, without so much as a look, and d’Artagnan really began to panic.

“What’s so important?” d’Artagnan called towards his back, “What is so important you’re willing to sell me out?”

When Marmion’s feet hesitated d’Artagnan pressed on. Maybe he could convince Marmion… Maybe….

“You’re making a deal with the devil Marmion. He’ll turn on you, just like me. You wait, he will!”

For a second, just a second, d’Artagnan thought he might have gotten through to him as he paused, half way toward the door. But that hope was extinguished when Marmion spun, the fury in his expression burning against d’Artagnan’s skin. He stormed across the room. A hand reached out and gripped d’Artagnan by the front of his sweatshirt.

“You do not get you _speak_ to me!” The words were spat at the other man, a glare forcing d’Artagnan to supress a flinch. “I do not deal with lairs. I do not deal with _deceivers_. You want to know what I traded you for? I would have traded you a cup of piss now I know what you are. A snitch, a snake in the grass! You can rot in this room for all I care.”

Marmion shoved his hand away, forcing d’Artagnan to flail for balance. For one terrifying second the chair teetered, on the brink of falling backwards, before it fell heavily back onto four legs. With a click Mael followed Marmion as he stalked away. Richelieu waited just long enough to make it clear he would _not_ be summoned before he turned, following the two men from the small room.

Marmion paused for a moment by the door, offering one last look.

“Your legacy, Charles, what you have helped our organisation obtain, will live in history forever. Think… A more successful Guy Fawkes. It will be,” Marmion’s eyes sparked in a way which sent d’Artagnan’s heart thundering against his chest, “Explosive.”

The door slammed shut, leaving d’Artagnan alone, with a passed out Porthos and a panicked ringing in his ears.

This was bad…

* * *

 

Athos should never have taken any notice of d’Artagnan’s words. He should have never gone home, should have never decided on a shower and should have _never_ left the undercover phone on his bed. Because when he wandered into his bedroom, pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips and towelling his curly hair dry, and saw the missed call and voice mail blinking on the phone he’s heart dropped out through his feet.

The pair had checked in! One check in every 24 hours - that was their instructions. A second phone call could only mean one thing; trouble.

The voice mail was muffled, clearly recorded from the inside of Porthos’ pocket.

_“Hey! We don’… guns! … …. Friends … what’s goin-“_

_“… shut him…”_

A thud, more rustling and then… Nothing…

Athos shook his head. Something had happened. Something had materialised which hadn’t been there a few hours ago. Grabbing his own phone from the bedside table he dialled their Captain as he haphazardly tugged on clothes. Despite it being close to 1am Treville answered the phone on the second ring.

“Athos? What’s going on?”

“Trouble with the Undercover team.” Athos stripped off his pyjamas and replaced them with dark jeans. “I don’t know what exactly, but there’s trouble.”

“Call Aramis,” Treville instructed, “I’ll call Unit 5. Meet at the Garrison.”

* * *

 

Their time alone could be cut short at any moment, so d’Artagnan knew he couldn’t waste it.

“Porthos,” He hissed at the unconscious man, “Porthos!”

Then the man next to him gave a glorious moan. He rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes. A little smirk played on the man’s lips and d’Artagnan couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss him or kill him.

“You were _faking_?”

“Please… One knock to this old thing?” Porthos wiggled his eyebrows, only regretting it slightly at the egg on his head began to thump, “Take more than a pistol whip to knock me out.”

“But you collapsed. They _dragged_ you in here!”

“It’s hardly the first time I’ve had to do it. If I look like I go down with the first punch they’re less likely to put a bullet in you.”

Right… Right… d’Artagnan nodded absently, feeling only mildly better to have Porthos awake by his side.

“So who _is_ that guy?” Porthos pressed, his face falling into a much more serious expression.

“Richelieu was Rochefort’s boss. Ever since I testified against in those trials he has wanted me dead. He was the man who shot me.”

“Him?” Porthos looked like he was having a hard time believing it. After all to the outsider Richelieu looked like some old man in his sixties.

“You don’t know him like I do,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “The man is capable of more than he looks.”

“You told Athos about him, didn’t you?”

The silence spoke volumes.

“You _didn’t_?” Porthos’ voice came out as a growl.

Had he been able d’Artagnan would have been shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

“I told him I didn’t see the guy’s face. That it was just some random thug from the Guard.”

“Why?” Porthos demanded, barely keeping a glare from his face.

“Because-“

But the door opened, forcing d’Artagnan’s mouth to snap shut. Richelieu slid into view, sending a shiver up his backbone. How could just the sight of him make d’Artagnan’s heart jump into his throat? Richelieu’s eyebrow shot up as he took in Porthos’, awake, form. The big man just glared back at him.

“Welcome back… Isaac is it? Or is that a lie too?”

Porthos just glared back.

“Chatty isn’t he?” Richelieu’s eyes slide to d’Artagnan. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, making d’Artagnan’s skin prickle.

Richelieu took a step forward. A hand slid down to his belt, pushing his suit jacket back carefully. It was supposed to look natural, subtle, but it showed off exactly what he’d intended. A gun, sleek and dark, sat strapped to his hip, a silver hunting knife next to it. d’Artagnan swallowed. He knew from experience the man wouldn’t hesitate in using either.

“Now, Charles, here is what I do not understand. I facilitate your arrival in Paris, I give you a job, somewhere to sleep. You could have gone far with us. You could have been one of us. So what did the police promise you to make you turn on the people who took you in?”

d’Artagnan ignored the uneasiness of his stomach. He was better than this. He _wasn’t_ that scared kid anymore. He had been trained by the best, the best of the best. He was one of _them_ now. If Richelieu was expecting the same kid he’d had under his control he was about to be shocked.

“They promised me I’d get away from you,” d’Artagnan channelled his best Athos _I’m bored of this conversation_ drawl, “Makes whatever they had me say worth it.”

Richelieu didn’t as much as flinch.

“So what do they have you doing now, Charles? Marmion and I have become close in the last few weeks of our negotiations. His cause is one close to my heart. Imagine my surprise when I, in the middle of a business meeting, see you come crashing out into the alleyway. Well I had to warn Marmion, it was the decent thing to do. Besides now I get to ask all the questions I’ve ha in the back of my mind…” Richelieu stepped forward and leaned in towards d’Artagnan’s face.

“Who are you working for?” The old man’s words were spat into his face. “What were you doing there?”

d’Artagnan clenched his jaw, attempting to look through the man in front of him.

_Settle…_ d’Artagnan borrowed the mantra he’d heard Athos mutter when the world around him got chaotic, _centre yourself and settle._

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed, frustrated by the silence. With a glare he pushed and stalked away. d’Artagnan thought for a moment he was going to head towards the door, but then he spun on his heels, back into view. Something in his hand caught the light of the low room, glinting and reflecting as it was raised. The knife which had been strapped again his hip was no longer stored.

d’Artagnan’s sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. His muscles tensed as Richelieu prowled back towards them, the knife twirling slowly between his fingers.

He could do this… Whatever the mad man had planned for him, he could do it.

But then, suddenly, the knife wasn’t pointed at him anymore. d’Artagnan’s choked around his breath as the knife was raised and came to rest against Porthos’ shoulder.

“Don’t –“

“You see I know you, Charles…” Richelieu dragged the knife across Porthos’ chest with _just_ enough pressure to tear through the fabric of his sweatshirt. Porthos twitched at the sound of the material ripping, but kept his gaze stubbornly straight ahead. “I know I might not get the truth by hurting you. But…”

The knife pressed through the thin fabric of Porthos’ undershirt and into his skin. The large man’s eyes flickered shut, a low growl of pain rolling over his tongue. Slowly the knife was dragged down and across Porthos’ chest, a trail of crimson blooming in the blades’ wake.

“Stop it!” d’Artagnan’s arms tugged violently against his binds, “Just stop!”

“Someone else?” Richelieu continued leisurely, “Well I imagine you shall be much more willing to talk…”

* * *

 

“It’s now been 85 minutes since the undercover team last made contact,” Athos addressed the room of agents. Aramis stood at the front, leaning against a table with his arms crossed over his dark jacket. His dark curls stuck up every direction, a clear indicator that he had been hauled out of bed by his leader’s phone call. His eyes, however, were sharp, wide awake, and ready for instruction. Behind him stood Ninon, blond hair tugged back into a tight braid, and the rest of Unit 5. They all had their eyes focused on Athos as he briefed them.

“They have been undercover, infiltrating the activist group ‘Fire with Fire’ for the last fifteen days. They’re leader is a suspected conspirator in the late Prime Minister’s assassination. d’Artagnan and Porthos have been tasked with gathering evidence of this and intel on any future attacks. I spoke with d’Artagnan around 23:00 hours last night and he was in good spirits, however I received a voice mail was received a 00:52 this morning from Porthos’ phone which appeared to be covertly recorded. Due to the nature of that recording we are pulling the team.”

Athos clicked the remote in his hand and a map and photograph shot up behind him.

“The call originated from this industrial estate. The warehouse is leased by a Marc Rochefort, who is currently serving a long stretch in the Châtelet Prison –“

“For _your_ kidnapping,” Aramis unhelpfully pointed out.

“Among other charges,” Athos swept passed the comment, “We know that before his incarceration Rochefort was heavily involved in The Guard. If that _is_ indeed where the undercover team are then there is a possibility d’Artagnan’s cover has been compromised. Although we don’t yet know if there _is_ a connection between Fire of Fire and The Guard it has been too dangerous to allow the investigation to continue. We pull them out tonight.”

With another click photographs flew up to replace the map.

“Memorise these faces. First is Jean-Luc Laurette, more commonly known as Marmion, leader of Fire with Fire. The right is Mael Thomas, his second in command. We know Fire with Fire is willing to use lethal force, _everyone_ is to have their vests in. We ride out in five. Get ready.”

The small group began moving suddenly, checking weapons and vests and filing out towards the garage.

Athos strapped his own vest to his chest and turned to head out when a hand touched his elbow and drew him back.

“Athos,” Ninon’s voice was quiet as the others moved around them, too low for them to hear.

“Ninon?” Athos didn’t look up as he checked his own weapon and back up. Even without looking Athos could imagine the look on the woman’s face. Eyes slightly narrowed, gaze searching out, evaluation whether she thought he was too close to the case to be objective.

“If you aren’t sure you can lead this,” Ninon began, voice still low, “If you would rather be with Aramis on the ground, then –“

“I’m fine.” Athos said flatly. He shoved his gun into it’s holder at his hip. “Now if you’re quite ready…”

* * *

 

“I’m _telling_ you the truth!” d’Artagnan’s voice knotted in his throat, “Alright I testified at the trial. They promised me a visa what would you expect me to do? Once I’d served my purpose they kicked me to the kerb. I found Marmion not long after that. I _believe_ in his cause!”

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed. For a moment d’Artagnan thought he was going to lower the knife, but then it plunged back into the flesh in Porthos’ side. Every one of the big man’s muscles seized as he snarled, teeth snapping together to keep the cry of pain inside the knife sunk deeper than it ever had before, a good few inches into his flesh. The rest of the cuts the mad man had inflicted were shallow, crisscrossing his chest in angry red slashes. They hurt, there was no doubt about that, but they were superficial, he wouldn’t bleed out from them.

But as the knife slide deeper into his side, Porthos knew he couldn’t say the same for his wound.

“Stop! Just –“ d’Artagnan’s voice almost broke, “Just _stop_!”

“But you keep lying, Charles…” Richelieu twisted the blade slowly. A guttural cry tore out Porthos which made d’Artagnan shudder. Finally the madman withdrew the knife, wiping the blood from blade against Porthos’ shoulder.

d’Artagnan’s head shook wildly, his eyes on Porthos, a dark stain beginning to form on his t-shirt.

“I. Am. Not.” The words were tugged from his throat furiously.

“Somebody saved you that night,” Richelieu stuffed his knife back into his belt. He brought his hands down to grip tightly to d’Artagnan’s wrists, fingernails biting into his skin. “You _should_ have died. Someone saved you. I know it wasn’t that girl of yours, so who? Who knew your whereabouts? I’m willing to bet it was the same people who sent you here…” With one last squeeze Richelieu pushed away.

“I will get the name, Charles. I will find out. If I need to slice your friend’s skin from his body to make you talk, I _will_! I-“

The door opened, distracting Richelieu.

“What?”

Mael flinched in the doorway. “Marmion sent me too – There’s something you should see.”

“Can’t it wait?” Richelieu snapped.

Mael, looking as if he was wishing to be anywhere but in that room, shook his head. The other man cursed and strode toward the door.

“Your boss should _not_ make a habit of summoning me,” Richelieu snapped as he slammed the door shut behind him, “It would be harradous to his-“

d’Artagnan missed the last of the sentence. Not that he was really listening. His attention snapped to his friend who, the moment the door had shut, slumped back in his seat with a low moan. Sweat had sprung onto his dark forehead, glistening with the effort of holding his composure.

“How bad is it?” Porthos gritted out finally.

d’Artagnan looked back to the oozing wound and swallowed, “It needs packed. We need to stop that bleeding.”

Porthos snorted a humourlessly, “Well that’s not goin’ ta happen…” His head lulled backward and d’Artagnan could tell his friend was focusing on the control of his breathing.

He was right. Of course he was. d’Artagnan shook his head, eyes on the dark patch on his friend’s shirt, noting with a sickening realisation that it was expanding.

“I,” d’Artagnan swallowed, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice, “I’ll tell him. Porthos, I’ll tell him everything. I can’t let him keep hurting you.”

Dark eyes snapped open and clamped onto d’Artagnan, fury burning against the young man’s skin.

“Don’t you dare!”

“But he isn’t bluffing,” d’Artagnan’s head shook. There was a quiver to his voice which d’Artagnan hadn’t expected, that he was ashamed for Porthos to hear, “You don’t know him like I do…”

“I don’t care if he’s bluffin’ or not,” Porthos growled, “You _will not_ sell the others out on accounta’ me.”

“Porthos-“

“No!” The bigger man’s voice was loud, harsh, “Don’t you dare. My life ain’t worth the others. You don’t get to make that choice!”

And dear God d’Artagnan understood that. To admit to the existence of the Musketeers would put hundreds of agents in danger. Every open mission, every undercover operation would be put in jeopardy. But…

“He’ll kill you…”

Porthos shook his head, his hand twitching as if trying to get to the wound, “He’ll probably kill me either way, even if you do talk…”

His voice was…calm. How was it calm? How could Porthos speak of his own death, his own slow, painful, torturous death, without as much as a shudder? d’Artagnan wished he could pretend that Porthos didn’t really understand the situation, that he didn’t know what was going on, what was going to happen… But he did. Porthos knew exactly what was about to happen. He wasn’t naïve. He just… Didn’t care. Or, rather, he did care. Cared enough to see the big picture he was a part of and realise his life was not worth destroying that. With a shaky swallow d’Artagnan realised Porthos had weighed all the options, realised what each action would mean, and come to the conclusion that his death would be worth it.

He really was a great man…

“So what do I do?” d’Artagnan felt a swell in his throat. How could Porthos, with a stab wound in his stomach, be stronger, braver, than him? When he wanted to crumble, how could Porthos stand to strong? “I can’t just sit here and watch him kill you.”

“Then,” Porthos swallowed, pain sweeping across his features before he pulled himself back together, “Then you better just close your eyes…”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Welcome to the next update... Only two chapters left now.
> 
> I hope you enjoy... I really do...

“Renard?”

“Sir?”

Athos suppressed a wince. He’d been called many things over the years, but Sir had never sat well with him. However, that was a conversation for another time. He risked a glance in the rear view mirror at the younger man.

“The moment the van stops I want you out and disabling the CCTV. Assume there’s more than one circuit. These people are smart.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Ninon, Giles and Felix, I want you to draw attention to the front doors. Put on a show, make some noice. Breech the perimeter if possible but if not hold attention for as long as possible.”

Giles and Lukas nodded. Ninon murmured her confirmation.

“The building plans show a side entrance in the south-east wall, Aramis and I will gain access there.”

Aramis, lips rubbing together as they always did before the commencement of a mission, bobbed his head. Athos glanced down as he pulled the van into the industrial estate. His teammate’s finger was worrying against his pistol’s trigger. Athos was sure every one of the worst case scenarios were rampaging through his friend’s mind. Of course he was equally sure that once the van stopped Aramis’ mind would slip straight into action. He could be allowed a moment of nerves.

“Just in case we miss any cameras I want balaclavas on.”

Athos slammed on the van breaks and skidded to a halt. He tugged the black fabric up and over his own head before swivelling in his chair. Every Musketeer was following his orders.

“Clear? Then move out!”

* * *

 

“How,” Richelieu spat around clenched teeth, wrinkled fingers stabbing at the keyboard over the younger man’s shoulder, “Have we lost all three of our outside cameras?”

“I don’t know… I don’t –“ Mael frantically tried to find words, “One minute I looked and it was all quiet outside, the next all I’m getting is static…”

“Forget to pay your bill, Richelieu?” Marmion smirked, watching the confusion from a distance with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Everything is under Rochefort. All the bills are paid from an account in his name. There’s enough there to pay for this dump long after this God forsaken city falls into Hades… So what is wrong?”

“I, I don’t…”

“Marmion are all your associates this useless?” Richelieu spat the words at Mael, who flinched in the chair, “Play back the last recordings, the most recent. Now!”

Mael began clicking frantically on the screen. A few minutes later a murky shot of the outside came into view. The cameras didn’t work so well in the dark, but a dark vehicle could be seen pulling into the upper right hand corner of the screen. Six figures piled out of the van, one breaking off from the group as they all slide of screen. A few seconds of nothing and then static.

Richelieu’s hand lashed out and slammed down as a fist against the table.

“How long ago was this?”

“F-four minutes?” Mael’s words came out as a question which made Richelieu’s hands twitch in an effort not tolash out.

“So they cut our CCTV and –“

Something crashed violently in the next room.

* * *

 

The bang a few rooms jerked d’Artagnan back to reality. His body shuddered, listening desperately for any tell-tale signs of Richelieu returning. At least the noise seemed to draw Porthos back to a fully alert state.

“That doesn’t sound good…” Porthos’ head rolled to the side, eyes catching d’Artagnan’s with a grimace.

“Or…” A voice whispered from behind them, “It could be the sound of a rescue, but feel free to keep being pessimistic.”

“Oh you cocky little fu-“ Porthos breathed out, smiling as a masked figure slide around into their eye line. After a few careful tugs the balaclava was pulled from the man’s head, revealing the floppy dark curls and shining eyes which was Aramis.

“We leave you alone for two weeks and you two get yourselves tied to –“ Suddenly Aramis’ eyes found Porthos’ side. All the humour suddenly drained from his face. “Shit man, what happened to you? Athos get in here!”

Aramis went about freeing his bleeding friend as Athos backed into the room, gun raised and sweeping to ensure they were relatively safe. Porthos was trying to reassure his friend that his the wound looked worse than it was, to which Aramis offered a withered gaze before returning to his work. Once their leader had decided the room was clear he pulled his own mask down, smiling slightly.

“How did you know we were here?” d’Artagnan tugged against his bonds as Aramis carefully rolled up Porthos’ tattered shirt to check the wounds. Athos, noticing his friend’s discomfort, yanked a knife from his ankle and carefully began to slice into d’Artagnan’s bonds. Somewhere in the back of his mind d’Artagnan wondered how he’d never known Athos carried a weapon there.

“Porthos left us a rather worrying voice message,” Athos explained as he successfully freed d’Artagnan’s right arm. He began swiftly working on his ankle as d’Artagnan began to yank at the knot on his left. “Recorded from the inside of his pocket…”

“Didn’t know if that,” Porthos wheezed as Aramis tapped across his chest, “That phone call had gone through…”

“Athos, he needs a hospital,” d’Artagnan pointed at Porthos, “He’s been bleeding steadily for the last twenty minutes.”

“Snitch…” Porthos grumbled.

Athos, ignoring his friend’s mutterings, focused back on d’Artagnan, “How many hostiles are we looking at?”

“Marmion and Mael,” d’Artagnan swallowed, “A couple of Guard thugs and Richelieu.”

“Richelieu, otherwise known as the guy who shot d’Artagnan,” Porthos helpfully added in, ignoring the glare d’Artagnan sent his way.

“You knew the person who shot you?” The look d’Artagnan received from his commanding officer was one of cold hard ice, “You told me it was some gang thug! That you didn’t know-“

“Can we prioritise for a moment?” d’Artagnan rose from the chair, rolling his shoulders in an effort to relieve the stiffness, “Yell at me later, alright? I promise to stand there and look all upset and everything but right now he-“ d’Artagnan stabbed a finger at Porthos, “- needs a hospital.”

Athos’ eyes narrowed for the smallest of moments before…

“Deal.”

He looked back to Porthos, “Can you walk?”

“Yea, yea no problem…” The man awkwardly pushed to his feet, sweat breaking out anew on his forehead. He managed a few steps before his body lurched to the side. Porthos would have hit the floor hard if it wasn’t for Aramis. He ducked under the big man’s arm, propping him up with a huff.

“So that’s a no,” Athos muttered dryly. He tossed a spare gun to d’Artagnan before sliding Porthos’ other arm over his shoulders, taking the rest of the big man’s weight.

“Lead the way,” d’Artagnan indicated with the gun, “I’ll cover you. I take it that crash was something to do with you as well?”

“Unit 5,” Aramis nodded, voice only slightly strained under Porthos’ weight as the three awkwardly began to walk, “Causing quite the distraction.”

“Speaking of…” Athos’ free hand jabbed the button on the side of his coms, “Extraction complete. Begin to draw back.”

The coms crackled in reply, making Athos nod.

“They have incapacitated three hostiles. No fatalities. Mael is down, Marmion too…”

“Richelieu?” Porthos asked around a cough.

“Hard to know,” Athos shot a look sideways at their Unit’s youngest member, “Since we don’t have a photograph…”

“He’ll have run at the first sounds of trouble. That man will never enter a building without some kind of escape route in place. No way he’ll stick around to be arrested.”

d’Artagnan ignored Athos’ frustration, knowing he would hear all about it later. The awkward three man group came to an uneasy halt at the doorway. d’Artagnan slid around the group and, gun raised, stepped through the empty door.

The room seemed empty enough. The wall opposite the side door was lined with heavy wooden crates, a door to an adjoining room was ajar.

“Coast is clear, bring him through.” d’Artagnan moved to the side to allow the rest of his team into the room. He walked with them, weapon still poised, ready to defend his brothers should the situation arise.

It wasn’t until the other door to the outside world that a thought struck him.

“I’ll be right behind you, I just want to check something.”

Athos turned, catching d’Artagnan’s gaze with a frown.

“Excuse me?”

“I just, Marmion said something earlier. He bought something from Richelieu, something dangerous… I need to check…” d’Artagnan’s gaze glanced back to crates. He was buying something explosive… If he could get evidence then –

“If I get some photographs, concreate evidence, it could be enough to keep him in jail for the rest of his life.”

Athos shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was split up, not after he had just got his team back. But Porthos needed to get out of the warehouse and he needed two people to help him do so. His stomach twisted at the idea of leaving d’Artagnan alone, the boy should be leaving with them, but he looked so sure…

“Ten minutes,” Athos decided against his better judgement, “Ten minutes, that’s it, and I want you back.”

“Got it,” d’Artagnan smiled. His free hand gripped Athos’ arm for the smallest of moments, “Go. I’ll see you in ten. Go get Porthos some help.”

With a nod the three shuffled out the doorway as d’Artagnan turned to the crates. Placing his gun on the floor next to him he knelt, fingers running over the rough wood. The lid was nailed down, but badly, it only took a few wrenches for d’Artagnan to wiggle his fingers under the lip, and a couple more to prize it up. He shoved the lid to the side and carefully plucked a long, think cylinder from the box. His finger ran along the edge of the length of the tube, turning it slowly over in his hand.

Dynamite. The sticks were old, the labels faded. d’Artagnan’s finger hand over the label as it curled up from the curved surface.

Not just dynamite…. Old, possibly unstable dynamite.

He leant over the box, counting the contents quickly. There were twenty-four sticks all together, and eight crates... d’Artagnan’s mouth dried up.

_A more successful Guy Fawkes…_

Marmion had bought enough explosives to blow up half of parliament.

d’Artagnan dug his phone from his pocket and snapped a few photographs. He uploaded them to the secure musketeer server when a voice wafted over the silence and froze his blood to ice.

“It would have been glorious, Charles. A Legacy, my legacy.”

d’Artagnan jerked. He rolled to his knees, his gun back in his hand before he was to his feet.

Marmion was crazed. His eyes swept the room wildly, his own weapon pointed at d’Artagnan’s stomach. A pair of handcuffs dangled, only connected to one wrist. His other hand hung limply at his side. The wrist was clearly broken.

Never trust a magician in handcuffs…

* * *

 

“You two are real weaklings, ya know that?” Porthos’ head lulled, his feet barely keeping up with his friend’s steps.

“You’re a lump of solid muscle,” Aramis huffed as they approached the empty van, “It would take a small fork lift to lift you alone.”

“Rude…”

Athos ignored the pair as he awkwardly threw the van door open and lay the injured man across the back seat.

“Aramis can you -?” Athos gestured Porthos’ wounds, but Aramis was already scrambling for his medical kit.

“On it.”

Athos watched for a moment as Aramis carefully cut the shirt away with sheers and began to pack the stab wound. Reassured that Porthos was in safe hands Athos stepped away, just as a second Musketeer van pulled up.

Treville stepped down from the driver’s seat, snapping order at Unit 6 as they spilled from the doors.

“Unit 5 has detained three suspects. I want them arrested and taken to the Garrison for interrogation. Now. Defer to Ninon. Go!”

The group set of at a run towards the warehouse as Treville turned to Athos.

“You got them?”

Athos nodded, “Porthos was stabbed, Aramis is packing the wound but he needs to get to a hospital.”

“And d’Artagnan?”

“He’s,” Athos ran a gloved hand through his hair, “still the warehouse.”

Treville’s hand stilled, eyes snapping back to Athos’ face with a glare, “He’s what? Tell me he’s not alone.”

Athos could tell Treville was as against the idea as he had been. “Unfortunately. We were carrying Porthos. He was sure there was evidence in the place. I gave him ten minutes. That’s it.”

“And now much of that is gone?” Treville demanded.

Athos glanced at his watch, “Five and a half…”

Their Captain shook his head with a growl, “If he is one second late…”

“I’ll kill him myself,” Athos nodded.

* * *

 

“It’s over, Marmion,” d’Artagnan watched as the older man’s face twitched, gun centred on his own chest. His own weapon weighed heavily in his hand, still pointed at the floor. How quickly could he draw? d’Artagnan knew he was fast…ish. He was no Aramis with a gun, or even Athos, but he was fast. But fast enough to draw, aim and fire before Marmion pulled the trigger? d’Artagnan wasn’t so sure…

“The movement, your plans, everything. It’s finished. This place is surrounded. You can still walk out of here with me but this,” d’Artagnan’s free hand gestured the crates of dynamite, “This is over.”

There was a flash in the man’s eyes, a spark of madness which told d’Artagnan they wouldn’t be walking out of here together. Marmion had no wish to get out of this alive. His gaze was wild, wide eyed and frantic. It was the panicked, desperate, stare of an animal snared in a trap.

“We could have lived in history forever!” Marmion’s voice cracked, frayed around the edges, “We could have been remembered! The men who saved France, who changed its face forever and you ruined it!”

“I couldn’t let you kill people, Marmion,” d’Artagnan shook his head.

“Who made you judge?” Marmion demanded.

d’Artagnan’s eyes narrowed, fury bubbling over for the smallest of moments.

“Who made you executioner?”

d’Artagnan let out a shaky breath. Loosing his temper would help nothing. He had to be smarter about this, calmer about it.

_Settle… Centre yourself and settle…_

“You know,” He began slowly, “I understand your beliefs. They make sense. Why should the rich in power be able to send people to their deaths in illegal wars. I get that. But how you’re going about spreading your message? Your actions are drowning out your words. No one will listen to your cause if they brand you a terrorist.”

“Well they didn’t listen before!” Marmion spat, “Years I preached the message and nothing. Change only comes from fire, diamonds are only formed under great pressure.”

“There are other ways, Marmion,” d’Artagnan stepped forward, eyes fixed on the man in front of him despite the gun on him. “You can still be heard, leave here with me and you can have your voice heard!”

Marmion blinked, face suddenly creased with confusion, “Oh, Charles…” He shook his head ever so slightly.

“Neither of us are leaving here.”

The finality of those words rang in d’Artagnan’s years. The breaths he managed to suck into his lungs were shallow, the heavy words crushing against his ribcage.

“I will not be abandoned here,” d’Artagnan knew he would not be abandoned by those outside. He was not alone. He would never be alone.

The smile which slid across Marmion’s face sent alarm bells sounding throughout d’Artagnan’s mind. What had he missed?

“Oh I know that, Charles. In fact I’m counting on it.”

Cold trickled down d’Artagnan’s spine.

“What are you talking about?”

The flicker of Marmion’s eyes was only for a moment. One second his eyes were focused on d’Artagnan, then, for the briefest of moments, it slid to the dynamite.

Dynamite should be fairly safe. Dynamite which was new and well looked after and well packed should be stable until it was ready to be used. But the stuff in the creates was from the black market. Old. No doubt it had been badly cared for. All it would need was a spark… Maybe from a gunshot…

All the pieces slid into place in d’Artagnan’s mind, too bad it was a fraction too late.

Marmion grinned at the realisation on the younger man’s face. His arm swung wildly, gun turning from d’Artagnan’s body to the open crate of dynamite.

“Goodbye, Charles-“

“No!”

d’Artagnan lunged forward. His hand enclosed around Marmion’s wrist as the gun fired and the world around them exploded.

* * *

 

Something was wrong. He knew this had been a mistake. He watched as the reinforcements marched three handcuffed men towards the back of the second van. Two random thugs, Athos assumed part of the Guard, and Mael… Athos frowned.

Where was Marmion?

“That’s ten minutes,” Athos growled at his watch. He glanced at Treville, who watching silently over the intake of suspects, “I’m going after him.”

Treville nodded, “Take Ninon. I’m not having you go in alone –“

The explosion from the warehouse light up the night sky like firework’s New Years’ eve. The sound ricocheted across the gravelled surroundings of the warehouse, slamming into Athos’ body, knocking the air from his lungs. When he looked up, horror gripped his throat. One of the warehouse’s walls had gone, along with a sizable chunk of roof. Not only that, but the building was engulfed in angry, bright flames.

No… No…

Athos didn’t remember starting to run, scrambling across the loose pebbly ground towards the burning building. Somewhere, vaguely, he was aware of his name being shouted at his back. He didn’t as much as flinch. His heart pounded out a rhythm in his ears as he ran.

d’Artagnan… d’Artagnan… d’Artagnan…

The second blast hit Athos full in the chest. The light of the explosion blinded his eyes as the heat tore across his face, singeing the hair and burning patches of skin. The impact knocked Athos from his feet and he fell heavily on his bad arm, pain screeching from the reconstructed joint. His head bounced against the unrelenting cold dirt, the impact causing his eyesight to quiver.

But the pain didn’t matter. Not the aches of the bruises he was sure were forming on his side, or the blur of eyesight which stemmed throb of his head. He ignored the pounding of his bad elbow as he pushed himself up with his good arm and stumbled to his feet. The pain was irrelevant.

A foot took a shaky step forward, towards the warehouse as it crumbled to the dirt as fire, angry and erratic, overwhelmed it.

“d’Artagnan!”

But then strong arms encircled him. Powerful hands took hold of his shoulders, holding him still even as Athos’ broken body tried to push forward.

“Athos.”

They were wasting time.

“Athos, stop.”

d’Artagnan was still in there.

“Listen to me.”

He could be slipping away.

“He’s gone, Athos…”

Treville’s voice seemed far away. Down a tunnel, across a faulty connection. Athos could hear him but not really _hear_ him.

“I’m sorry, Athos,” Suddenly the hands weren’t holding him back anymore. They were encircling him. Treville’s body enveloped him; his scent, his calm, his security… “I’m so, so sorry…”

Athos sagged against Treville’s body. His vision blurred as, slowly, it faded into the blackness all together.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the last chapter of Blood Spilled! Thank you for all the wonderful views, kudos and reviews! They mean so much. 
> 
> Anyway, on with the chapter. I'll see you in the notes at the bottom!

The hall was packed. The room, a small Catholic chapel with beautiful stained glass windows and old wooden pews, was hushed. Men and women created a sea of black suits and jackets, broken up only by pin pricks bright silver which adorned every agent’s chest. Even Constance, flanked by Aramis and Porthos, the former holding her hands and later’s arm curled around her shoulders, had a Fleur de Lis pin attached to the front of her black dress. It had been d’Artagnan’s pin, left in his desk before the undercover assignment. It had only seemed right for her to have it.

The little trio sat in the front pew, a spot which had been left for them as a sign of respect. Constance’s hands had clutched Aramis’ in a death grip since they had stepped foot over the church’s door step, not that the man had complained once. Aramis was aware that Constance was holding onto her composure by mere threads, and such a miracle was only possible due to the close proximity of the two men. There was only one empty seat in the whole sanctuary, in the front row, next to group. Aramis had noticed, as had Porthos when they’d shared a knowing look over Constance’s head.

He wasn’t there. Aramis had hoped he would have shown up, but wasn’t all that surprised…

“d’Artagnan,” Treville’s voice rang out over the hundred strong congregation. Porthos felt Constance flinch at the name under his arm and pulled her a little tighter to his side. She resisted only for a moment before sinking into the big man’s warmth.

“Was a good agent. But, more importantly, he was a great man.”

Their Captain stood tall in his dark suit, his own pin sat proudly on his lapel. His fingers curled against the lectern as he looked over the crowd. If he had notes, he hadn’t glanced at them once. To his left sat a poster board, the smiling face of their young agent shining out over the crowd. He looked so, Aramis couldn’t think of any word for it, alive. His eyes gleamed out from the card, his lips curled in a smile which was _just_ beginning to tumble into a laugh. It felt like, if Aramis waited long enough, the laugh might still come.

“He was a man who refused to be defined by his past. Refused to let it dictate his future. So many people, people without the same strength of character, would have allowed such events to destroy them. They would have given up and proclaimed it was too much, but our boy was strong. He rose back. When he joined our brotherhood he studied, learned and even occasionally listened-“

A ripple of heartbroken laughter echoed through the crowd. Aramis heard himself laughing along, saw Porthos’ shoulders move, but the sound seemed forced, hollow…

“He grew with us, in skill and strength and character, into the man we knew and loved. When he arrived into our organisation d’Artagnan was a headstrong, stubborn, boy and I had the privilege of watching him transform into a brave, brilliant man, even if he kept up a headstrong, stubborn streak.”

Treville paused for a moment as he expelled a breath slowly.

“I wish I could continue to watch that transformation, I wish we all could. d’Artagnan’s life was not meant to end this soon. He was not destined to die in that explosion. Our friend, our brother was stolen from us. He was ripped from our lives by a madman who d’Artagnan had sworn to stop. Well he did that. d’Artagnan succeeded in his final mission. It is my one regret that it cost him his life.”

Their Captain cleared his throat and stepped out from behind the podium. His hand raised up and touched his silver pin.

“But our bond does not end in death. Our kinship is not so easily severed. d’Artagnan is, was, and will always be our brother. His family-“ Treville’s eyes found Constance and gave her a small nod, “- are our family. Their problems are our problems. That promise is written in our constitution, written on our hearts. Please, if you are willing to make that commitment, stand with me now…”

There was a shuffling around the room as people rose. Unit 5 stood up, Ninon solemn in a black dress reached up and touched her silver pin, the rest of her team only a moment behind. Samara stood a little further back, surrounded by her own team as she pressed a tight lipped kiss to her own Fleur de Lis. Doctor Lemay stood on the other side of the congregation, tears in his eyes as a finger traced his own over the metal on his chest. The rest of his research team were by his side, each looking to their Captain on the platform.

Every agent in between got to their feet, ready to make the pledge to their fallen brother. Quickly the little group at the front were only three people sitting in the whole chapel. Constance, because it wasn’t her oath to take, and Aramis and Porthos because they couldn’t bare leave her side.

“And as one voice,” Treville’s voice rang out over the crowd, “We make our oath. We make our vow to our fallen brother, to his family left behind. You are not alone, you will never be alone. All for one and one for all!”

“All for one and one for all!” Every voice in the hall echoed out their repeated vow. The words filled the area, the promise swelled into every inch of the room. Constance heard them all, but none more so than the two promises whispered into either ear.

There was one more oath, offered by someone who only Treville could see. Through the sea of agents, of the familiar faces of the men and women he would lay down his life for, Treville focused on one. He shouldn’t be there, in the back row. There was a seat reserved with the rest of his team in the front row, but then, perhaps he would rather be alone. Perhaps that what he felt he deserved. His mouth moved along with the others, making his own oath secretly as his hand pressed to his pin.

But by the time Treville had motioned the crowd to be seated, and looked back to the spot, Athos had disappeared.

* * *

 

The wake would be going on, but Athos slipped from the church. He should go, he was expected to go, but Athos fled down the steps. He wasn’t needed, wasn’t wanted. Constance would be in good hands. In fact, the best hands.

Aramis? He would know the right things to say. He’d stick by Constance’s side, murmuring gentle words of encouragement in her ear. He might even remind her of better times, of her husband’s smiles, so even through the tears her lips would twitch with the slightest happiness.

Porthos? He would know what to do. Without words he would envelop the little woman in a hug, wrap his strong arms around her body and _squeeze_ just tight enough so she knew her world wasn’t falling apart, even if it felt like it was. Even without hugs he would maintain physical contact. An arm round the shoulders, her hand on the small of her back. It would just be little touches, but they would remind Constance she wasn’t alone.

They were there, they would be there for her. What good would Athos be? Why would Constance want to look at him? The man who had, in so many ways, caused her husband’s death…

Athos barely registered the walk back to his apartment, ignored the world around him as he let himself in with key. He hadn’t been back to the flat since his first night released from the hospital, 48 hours after his friend’s death. Aramis had driven him there that morning, the car wrapped in an awkward silence. Athos hadn’t been surprised that his friend had hardly looked at him. Why would he when Athos couldn’t even look at himself?

_“Do you want me to come up with you?”_ Aramis had asked as they’d pulled up. A hand had attempted to come and rest on Athos’ shoulder, but he’d shot away before it landed.

“ _I’ll be fine… You should get back to, Porthos.”_ He’d muttered, before escaping the confines of the car.

The empty bottle of wine and the glass still sat on the table from that day, his bag from the hospital on the chair. Athos glared at it as he walked past. His hand savagely loosened his black tie and tossed it on the counter top, quickly followed by his suit jacket. For a moment he vaguely considered changing out of his white shirt and dress trousers but, Athos reasoned, that could be time better spent drinking.

It had taken Athos a good ten years to trust himself to drink again after his near overdose. Ten years to prove to himself alcohol wouldn’t revert him back to the teenager who chased numbness in a bottle of wine or canister of pills. He’d really believed that he’d overcome those weaknesses of his character, but now, as dark voices screamed murder inside his head, Athos suddenly wasn’t so sure.

_You did kill him_ … the voice sneered. _You ordered him to his death._

Athos flinched. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and over his tired eyes.

d’Artagnan had wanted to go, he’d _wanted_ to go undercover.

_To impress you! He wanted to prove he was good enough and he ended up dead because of it!_

Athos ignored the shake of his hands as he reached up and tugged down a wine bottle from a high shelf.

_Constance would still have a husband if it wasn’t for you…_

Cork screw… Where the hell was the cork screw?

_He’d be alive if it wasn’t for you!_

Anger flashed for a moment and Athos sent the object nearest to him flying. The wine bottle shot from his grasp and ricocheted against his abandoned bag. Both went crashing to the tiled floor. Athos cursed as the bottle shattered, the dark wine oozing over white kitchen tiles, staining the grout and the spilled contents of his bag.

Athos groaned, unsure if it was due to the mess or the wasted wine, and stepped forward to inspect the damage. The grabbed his medical discharge papers, now stained a deep crimson, and began to ball them up when something else grabbed his gaze. A small orange cylinder lay in the wine puddle, red drips flecking the label. Due to the curve of the bottle Athos couldn’t read the stamped type of his own name, but could read the name of the contents.

Acetaminophen-Codeine.

Damn it. Damn it, _damn it!_

He’d refused that medication. His damned file was supposed to be marked as unsuitable for oral pain relief. Treville had ‘suggested’ (instructed) Athos do that when he’d first enlisted into the Army.

Why had that damned doctor even _asked?_

_“No,” Athos had continued to stuff things into his bag, ignoring the twinge of pain his side and shoulder. “Thank you.” He’d added as an afterthought._

_“Mr Alexander, you had quite the fall,” The doctor shook the little canister of pills at him, clearly unwilling to take no for an answer. “If you are insisting to be discharged against medical advice you must take some kind of pain management with you. Right now you have residual effects of morphine in your system but I assure you that will not last beyond midday. You need to have some time of medication with you to deal with the pain.”_

He’d refused, again and again, because knew his limits. Alcohol was one thing, but tablets were quite another. Athos hadn’t taken anything stronger than an Aspirin since Treville had found him passed out cold on the floor of his parent’s basement. He didn’t trust himself.

And now the Codeine was in his _house._

For a second Athos just crouched there, wine soaked paper dripping from his hand.

He should call Treville, or flush them, or call Treville _then_ flush them. Whatever he did he should get them out of his house and out of reach.

But he didn’t. Athos scooped up the canister, ignoring the damp sticky patches. He grabbed the corkscrew (which sat beside the empty bottle), found a fresh bottle of wine, and swept from the room.

* * *

 

Athos ignored the hammering on his front door, just had he had been doing for the last 15 minutes. His fingers gripped the neck of the dark green bottle and tipped it back over his open mouth. His other hand twirled the, as yet unopened, canister.

The heavy knocks on the door finally ceased. Athos’ head fell back against the hallway wall he sat against as he let out a sigh of relief. Finally, it had seemed the unwelcome visitor had gotten the message.

Or so it had seemed.

A couple of quiet scratches were his only prior warning. The wine induced fog inside Athos’ mind dulled his senses. By the time he realised that those noises meant, what was _happening_ , it was too late. Athos clumsily stuffed the orange canister behind his back, just as the door opened.

Ninon stepped forward into the room, tucking the hair pin back into her curls. She was still wearing her black funeral dress, a modest knee length garment with lace sleeves to the elbow. The woman took in the sight before her. Athos, in his black trousers and crumpled white shirt, collapsed in his hallway against a wall, drinking wine from the bottle with a good third already gone. Surprisingly, the woman didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

“Your door is a joke. The lock took me less than a minute to pick. You should see to that.”

Athos’ head rolled, listening to the sound of his own neck cracking.

“A closed door is usually an indication of someone _not_ wanting to be disturbed, Ninon…”

“I have hardly made a habit of listening to you,” Ninon stepped into the room and let the door click shut behind her, “It would be a shame to break such a useful habit.”

Athos normally was more than willing to spar, verbally or otherwise with the towering blonde, but today he just sighed. “What do you want, Ninon?”

“I didn’t see you at the funeral.” Ninon stepped forward, until Athos was looking straight at her shins. His gaze dropped down to the wine bottle in his hand, deciding that it was a better view. “But seeing how you’re dressed, I suppose you were there.”

Athos nodded, “I went.”

Ninon’s eyebrow shot up, “And not the wake?”

“Why would I?” Athos shrugged clumsily, his finger running around the lip of the bottle.

“Why would you – Athos, d’Artagnan was your friend!” She bent down to down to look him in the eye. Athos ducked the gaze, instead he took another swig from the glass bottle.

“Don’t…”

“He _was_ your friend, Athos – no…” Ninon’s hand enclosed around the neck of the bottle over Athos’ fingers, preventing him knocking any more back. The action finally forced Athos to look up, pain etched deep into his gaze as it locked with Ninon’s.

“Please, please, don’t...”

The crack in Athos’ voice made the woman pause. She had seen Athos angry, she seen him stressed, even once she’d seen him scared, but never this… Never hopeless…

“Well you aren’t going to just sit here alone and drink yourself into oblivion,” Ninon breathed, her second hand trying to coax Athos into releasing the wine. Stubbornly, Athos’ fingers refused to relent ownership.

“And you plan to stop me?” For a second, the smallest of seconds, Ninon thought she saw a flash of the old Athos in his eyes. Defiant humour, a spark of challenge… But with a blink it was gone.

Decision made, Ninon lowered herself to the carpet and settled next to Athos. He frowned, looking as if Ninon had grown an extra head as she kicked of her black court heels and stretched her legs out next to Athos’.

“What are you _doing_?”

“I said you weren’t drinking alone,” Ninon arched an eyebrow and tugged a little more forcefully at the bottle, “Now are you going to share?”

Athos released his hold on the wine and watched, dumfounded, as Ninon threw her head back and downed a few mouthfuls of wine. He blinked. Ninon. Stiff upper lipped, old money, disrespect me and I’ll chop your balls off, _Ninon,_ was drinking wine straight from the bottle on his hallway floor.

Perhaps he should take a picture….

Ninon wiped a stray wine drip from the corner of her mouth, holding Athos’ gaze with defiance.

“What?”

Athos just shook his head, “Nothing, I - Nothing…” He took his bottle back and gulped down a mouthfuls.

With a smirk Ninon nodded.

“Good.”

So they drank. The first bottle was drained quickly, replaced rapidly by Athos with another. For the second Ninon had insisted they move to his living room sofa, although didn’t mention the need for glasses. They passed the bottle between them and talked little. Ninon, honestly, had been shaken by the emotion she had seen in her fellow agent’s eyes, so hadn’t brought up the funeral again. But by the last quarter of the second bottle… Common sense was not prevalent.

Ninon, a little unsteadily, leant forward and set the bottle on the coffee table, out of reach. Athos frowned, his eyes following the wine as it was removed from his presence.

“I wasn’t done with that…”

“And you can have it back once you’ve answered my question…” Ninon ran a hand through her hair. Athos watched the way the golden curls broke free from the regimented bun and fell in ringlets around her face. Their addition seemed to soften her features. Still, Athos regarded her warily. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew where this was going.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Athos…” Ninon turned carefully on the sofa so she could face him. “I want to help you…”

Warning bells began in Athos’ mind.

“Don’t.”

Carefully Ninon reached out a hand towards his own. Athos pulled back and out of reach. The movement drew a sigh from the woman.

“Athos…”

But Athos didn’t want to hear it. Before Ninon could finish her sentence he was already moving. He shoved away from the sofa and stumbled, a little unsteadily, towards the room’s window.

“Ninon, stop. I don’t – I just can’t.”

“What _can’t_ you do?”

She watched Athos’ shoulders hunch as his forehead came to rest on the cool glass.

“I can’t deal with your sympathy.”

Ninon blinked in surprise. She had expected… Well not that. She watched tension ooze across his body and spread out across his shoulders, watched as his breath misted up against the window pane.

“I don’t… I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t deserve-“ Ninon shook her head and slid from the sofa into a standing position, “Athos this isn’t sympathy, it’s empathy! You are mourning, but we all are too. We loved d’Artagnan. We all did!”

“I know you all loved him!” Athos spat, anger suddenly bubbling up throat and bursting red hot out of his mouth. His hands curled into tight fists at his side. “I loved him! He had a wife and a dream and a future and I _STOLE THAT_!” The muscles along Athos’ arm strained with pressure. For a second Ninon feared Athos might put his fist through the window but then Athos seemed to drain. His body slumped against the cool glass, beaten.

“I got d’Artagnan killed,” The admission was barely above a whisper, a few choked out words of honest which broke the man in two. “I let him go on that mission. I let him stay in that building alone. He should have never been there, he wouldn’t have been in that blast if it wasn’t for me.”

“That’s not…”

“Not what? True?” Athos shook his head. Ninon’s stomach twisted in discomfort, watching as Athos’ face warped in bitter self-loathing. She could only see half of his face and even that was covered in shadow. A humourless laugh fell from his lips. “I left him in that warehouse. I didn’t _check_ everyone has been incarcerated… It was my op, my responsibility and he died on my watch…”

Athos trailed off into silence.

There it was. The truth, or at least Athos’ understanding of the truth. Ninon knew it wasn’t important whether his truth aligned with the rest of the world’s or not, it was his reality.

She let out a sigh as Athos’ eyes slid shut. Slowly, so she couldn’t be accused of an ambush, Ninon’s bare feet padded across the small room to Athos. She raised her hand, second guessed herself only for a moment, before she gently found Athos’ shoulder. She provided just enough pressure to encourage the man to pivot, which he did with minimal resistance.

“Look at me…” Ninon’s voice was soft, but her words were not posed as a request. She waited as patiently as she could, but was on the verge of repeating the instruction when Athos finally opened his eyes. Still blue, still bright, but broken. Moisture welled in the edges which, had they been sober, Ninon was sure wouldn’t have been there.

“I can’t live with this…” Athos confessed, “I can’t. Not knowing what I caused. How am I meant to look at my team, look at Constance, knowing that d’Artagnan’s death is my fault? ”

“Athos…”

“How can _you_ look at me?” Ninon could smell the wine on his breath, see the intoxication dance in his features. Athos stepped forward, his hand clumsily reaching up to brush ringlets of hair out of her face. “How can you be here?”

“Because,” Ninon held Athos’ gaze, pausing to ensure she had his full attention, “this isn’t your fault.”

It seemed like Athos was ready to argue again but instead he just sighed.

“I just don’t want to think about it,” Athos withdrew his hand, as if only just realising it had likely lingered beyond its welcome. “I just… It hurts too much…”

Had the pair not been alone? It wouldn’t have happened. Had they been sober? It wouldn’t have happened. Had they both not been emotionally raw in need of comfort? It wouldn’t have happened.

But they were.

Ninon took a step forward, a hand sliding up to cup the back of Athos’ head. A little sound clawed out from the man’s throat at the contact, which only spurred Ninon on more.

“You don’t want to think about it anymore…” Ninon repeated gently, “Do you… Need a distraction?”

Athos swallowed, blowing a breath out around his teeth.

“Yes…”

Ninon’s fingers tightened ever so lightly in Athos’ hair which drew a hiss from between his lips.

“Do you want _me_ to distract you?”

For a second all Ninon could hear was Athos’ shallow breathing. She worried she’d made a mistake, read the scene wrong. It was possible. Over all the years she’d known Athos, Ninon had never seen him out of control, never seem him in a situation he didn’t command just by his presence.

But perhaps this was what Athos needed right now. Perhaps he needed to be out of control, to hand it over to someone else and, if only for a little while, allow his mind to close down. Still… There was no guarantee Athos would allow himself to let go.

But then his eyes slid closed. Athos’ head leaned back feeling the tight hold of his hair. Ninon watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

“Please…”

Ninon’s continued to apply pressure to with her hand as she stepped forward. He felt her breath traced over his lips, over his cheeks, it made air hitch in his own throat. She was close… So close.

“Please what..?”

“Please,” Athos swallowed. He wanted this. He _needed_ the distraction. He needed to stop thinking and making decisions and hearing the voices screaming murder inside his head. He needed this.” Ninon?”

“Good boy…” Ninon nodded. Her free hand reached up and gripped onto Athos’ crumpled shirt. She tugged his body firmly towards her own as her lips found his.

* * *

 

 

“I can’t… Sir, he needs pain relief,” The Doctor supressed a flinch as the patient writhed and shuddered on the thin mattress in front of him. Second degree burns covered much of the slim figure’s left side. Angry red blisters covered his chest, shoulder and across his stomach. The typically tanned skin was angry and enflamed, shiny blisters swelling until they burst and the body seemed to weep.

His arm though? That was a different matter. The burns of the figure’s left arm had drilled down to the bone, destroying every layer of skin on the way. The skin was a dark red and only time would tell if it would turn black. If it did? Well the skin would be dead. In any hospital in the country that would lead to a skin graft but now? In this bare room with only the most basic medical supplies? Amputation would be a more likely option.

The figure twitched, his blistered shoulder knocked against the bed and a whined, features etched with pain. The Doctor actually flinched this time. As gently as possible he continued to care for the man’s broken body. Two fingers gently applied which antiseptic cream to the worst blisters, giving them a disconcertingly chalky appearance.

“I’ve not employed you to keep him comfortable, Doctor Deniau,” Richelieu’s eyes slid over the shaking form on the metal bed. Precautions had been taken. When the man had been brought to the room his uninjured arm had been cuffed to the bed frame, but that seemed a little redundant now. The man may be conscious, but with fifty percent of his body burned from the waist up? He wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“I’ve charged you with keeping him alive.”

“And if he goes into shock from the pain that may not be possible.” Deniau carefully tugged the man’s long dark hair away from his burns. He had shaved the areas closest to the facial burns, up his neck and over his left ear, but the rest of the strands seemed intent to become stuck in the blistery mass. The man was lucid, at least partly. His eyes were at half mast, lips mouthing silent prayer Deniau didn’t understand.

“There will be no pain relief until I hear what I need to hear.” Richelieu’s eyes shot back to the squat, balding, middle aged man, “And you _will_ do as I say, unless you want those photographs to end up on your wife’s doorstep.”

Deniau shuddered. One mistake. One drunken night. One stupid decision. The CCTV images of him fucking the prostitute in The Silver Room would be held over his head for the rest of his life.

This whole thing was wrong. To keep this man awake and without morphine was nothing short of torture, but what could he do? In the end Deniau just nodded, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach.

“As you wish, Sir.”

“Good,” Richelieu carefully circled the figure in the bed, taking in the man. Deniau watched the body on the bed stiffen, the man’s lips freeze mid mantra. The old man’ crouched down with surprising dexterity, right at the figure’s ear.

“Say it. Tell me who you belong to and I will order him to make the pain go away.”

The body on the bed twitched away from the voice. A groan followed quickly as the skin was bumped yet again.

“Four words…” Richelieu taunted slowly. His hand reached up and pressed into on the blisters in his neck, drawing a howl from the man’s cracked lips.

“Four words. Say it. ‘I belong to you.’ Say it and this all goes away.”

The man remained silent. Deniau found himself begging in his mind, pleading with the broken figure on the bed to just _give_ the madman what he wanted. Just give _in_.

But there was only silence.

“Fine.” Richelieu said finally. He drew himself back to full height, towering over the charred man. “Fine. Enjoy your night. Enjoy the pain. We’ll try this again in the morning…”

With one more careful press to the man’s neck, one more scream of pain, he left the room.

Deniau began his work again. More antiseptic cream. More heavy duty moisturiser. More mutterings.

The man’s lips began to move slowly again which didn’t escape the Doctor’s notice.

“If you’re praying,” Deniau said with a sigh, “I hope whoever’s up there is listening.”

* * *

 

d’Artagnan wasn’t praying. His mantra played, over and over, a CD skipping in his mind. He clung to the words, clung to their truth in an attempt to ignore the white hot pain which ignited his body.

_My name is d’Artagnan de Lupiac._

_My wife’s name is Constance de Lupiac._

_My teammate’s names are Aramis Herblay and Porthos du Vallon._

_Our leader’s name is Athos Alexander._

_We are Musketeers._

_All for one and one for all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to end the story here, but it seemed like the natural end.
> 
> The next story has been started, although I cannot promise when it will be posted. Be assured it WILL be posted, an it will be worth the wait - promise! 
> 
> Until then, thank you SOOO much for enjoying the story and sharing your thoughts! 
> 
> Love love!
> 
> Lat ^^


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